


Don't You Want Me

by lucythemermaid



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Bartender - Freeform, CMBYN - Freeform, Call Me By Your Name AU, Call me by your name, Canon Universe, Charmie, Clubbing, Coming Out, Doctor/Patient, Gay Bar, Gay Sex, Hook-Up, Late Night Conversations, M/M, One Night Stands, RPF, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, idk we'll just see how this goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-04-30 17:50:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucythemermaid/pseuds/lucythemermaid
Summary: Timmy is a bartender for a local gay bar in New York. He holds a love-hate relationship with the job, and besides its hook-ups and easy money, its perks do very little to label the whole thing worthwhile. He's struggling to pay his rent, is just about getting by on microwave meals. That is until Armie Hammer walks in one night. Armie, newly-single and only recently out the closet, doesn't expect this twenty-two year old angel to be behind the bar. Could never predict just how much their coincidental meeting could change their lives.From two different backgrounds and living entirely oppositional lives, their meeting does more to change their circumstances than they ever could have anticipated.





	1. The World at Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Short and sweet chapter to start things off! I hope you like. :) I'm wantedyoutoknow on Tumblr.
> 
> The title and chapter title are both The Human League inspired (because hey, what's a gay bar without 80s' dance?) :o)

_You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when I met you._

_I picked you out, I shook you up,_

_and turned you around._

_Turned you into someone new._

**\- The Human League - Don't You Want Me**

 

* * *

 

 

Timmy hated the Friday night shift. Busier than Saturdays which had initially surprised him, most customers forty-plus, just come from their twelve hour job in the city. Some had wives, unmistakable from their inability to meet the bar-tender’s gaze and their frantic observing as if they’d be caught out and pulled aside for inspection. Some on business trips, in groups, downing shots and high as fuck. He cringed to himself, observing from afar at the whole facade. What he’d been told of gay clubs couldn’t be further from the reality. He’d worked here two months, thinking it would be a laugh; easy money and casual sex. Only the whole thing, although a regret, felt simultaneously right somehow. He’d always assumed gay-bars were filled with those confident in themselves, looking for easy-fucks and a high, one way or another. But instead, everyone was putting on some kind of show.

There were regulars, of course. Pete, who chatted him up once whilst Timmy was pouring pints, and gave him his number.  Timmy pretended he’d _forgotten_ to call. Fact was, Pete had a beer belly and was clearly in the closet. Not. His. Type. Being flirted with, particularly when you’re twenty-two, the awkward type and shaking cocktails with _unintended_ flirtation, was unavoidable. Well, sometimes the intent was there. Particularly with Marcus, a customer that had started making Friday nights his only night, purely for Timmy’s participation. Marcus, thirty-five, French. Timmy criticised his second-language abilities, more so when Marcus was around. He regretted letting this fact about his heritage slip, for Marcus began speaking to him in his mother-tongue from that point onwards. Not that Timmy could complain, Marcus was mesmerising and being granted permission to speak with words that didn’t require second-guessing or hesitation, gave him some newfound confidence in a city that wasn’t home.

It was approaching eleven-thirty and Marcus hadn’t arrived. Not that Timmy was particularly bothered. Every Friday, once Timmy had clocked-off at three, Marcus would wait outside and they’d go back to Timmy’s cramped, one-bed apartment. An excellent fuck, and Timmy rarely saw the same person twice, so Marcus joked he was special. They’d become fairly accustomed to one another. Knowing their weak spots, what positions suited best. Kept tally of who came first, made joke of it. It had become quite the highlight of Timmy’s week. Timmy tried not to count, he didn’t even have Marcus’ number, but he recokened if tonight followed suit, he’d have topped him eight times. _If he were counting, of course._ Timmy wiped down the bar, zoning out of his surroundings, humming along to The Human League. This shift was dragging out excessively, more so than usual, and if Marcus wasn’t showing up he’d be grateful. Bed was calling.

“What beers do you have?”

His voice. Smooth and rich, like velvet to the skin. The hairs of Timmy’s forearms stood up like they’d been stimulated by electricity. Everything felt like it’d been hindered in its motion, un-stimulated and simmered in its speed. Timmy struggled to respond, which frustrated him. A _voice_ alone, stopping him in his tracks? Was he really that pathetic? He inhaled with thorough intent, swallowed deeply and mastered a quick-glance at his customer. And looked away just as fast.

The man towered above the bar, sporting a blazer, shirt and tight jeans that sculpted his crotch like paint-work. A feature Timmy instantly regretted observing. He could feel his face flushing, trying to convince himself it was the strobe lighting illuminating his face and not the effect this stranger was having on him.

“Um, what do you usually go for?” Timmy spluttered, unable to meet the gaze of his spectator. Trying to perform confidence was proving impossible. The man in front of him was definitely new to this club, he wouldn’t have missed him previously. His presence guided the room. Not only was he towering over Timmy, and Timmy was over 6-foot himself, but his stance and gait oozed nonchalant, comfortable and poised. Every movement he undertook screamed intent. Every step was meant and well-considered. Like a pre-determined performance. He reeked with charisma and it both intimidated and turned Timmy on to an uncomfortable extent.

The stranger pushed his dirty blonde hair back with his finger-tips, casually, and grinned at Timmy as if to say _‘oh, so now you’re looking at me.’_ Timmy also recognised how much ‘usually go for’ could sound like an innuendo, given the setting. His eyes diverted to the cocktail menu in front of him to save himself from any further embarrassment.

“What time do you finish?” The man asked, in a tone Timmy couldn’t mimic if he tried. So self-assured and slick. Each word fell from his lips like liquid, soaking any efforts Timmy tried to grip to keep his balance. Timmy blinked dramatically, stunned.

“Usually three,” He gulped, pushing his curls back from falling in his line-of-vision. “But my manager mentioned me leaving early for a change, since I’m always here ‘til close.”

The man nodded with a smug turn of the lip, observing Timmy intently as if he were taking snapshots with his eyelids. “Well, let me know,” He muttered, his eyes staring into Timmy’s as if he were searching for something. “I’ll be around.”

Timmy raised his brow in confusion.

“... Didn’t you want a drink?”

The man scoffed, rolling his eyes with a chuckle.

“You really think I came over here for that?”

Timmy’s lip twitched unavoidably. He dropped his gaze, for looking at this man for longer than a second felt like a luxury he didn’t deserve.

“I’m Armie,” he stated as if it were a fact Timmy should’ve known already. Before Timmy had chance to flinch, an involuntary response, Armie’s finger-tips traced Timmy’s wrist that he’d forgotten he’d rested on the bar-top. Armie squeezed his skinny wrists, his hand wrapped around it firmly with some kind of flirtation that Timmy was struggling to decode the intentions of.

“Timmy.”

“Short for Timothy?”

“Timothée.” He enunciated dramatically with the roll of his tongue, for comedic effect, followed by a roll of his eyes.

“Wow.” Armie mumbled. Now he was the one flinching, dropping his gaze. Few guys had this effect on him and it startled him. It was unnerving and he shrugged it off before granting him the chance to over-think it to an unhealthy extent.

 

_“Later.”_


	2. A Magenta Crayola

Armie replayed what had just happened in his head several times. _Had he come across the right way? Was that guy even legal? Was he even interested; had he come on too strong?_ In effort to look relaxed about the whole thing, he practically grabbed a vodka shot from the girl walking around with them enthusiastically, enough to shake her balance and pushed through the crowd. He’d dance it off, shake off this feeling whatever it was.

_Armie Hammer didn’t get nervous._

Maybe he’d just drank too much, or it was too warm in here.

The bartender, no, wait, he’d got his name. Timothèe. Was enchanting. Armie hadn’t meant to start conversation with him, just harmless flirting. But his reaction alone, his inability to meet his eyes, had only encouraged him. Armie had never seen someone physically blush before. Timmy’s cheeks had flushed under the dimmed lights, in response to Armie’s voice, alone. His vulnerability, his awkwardness, his supposed epitome of intimidated, was a turn-on in itself. That, and he was fucking beautiful. His curls, styled yet effortless in return, hung just above his ears in an arrangement that _glorified_ the term ‘bed-hair.’ His eyes, wide and curious, only meeting Armie’s a couple of times at most, were expressive and intense. His lips, however. _God, his lips._ Plump and a vibrant pink, as if they’d been tinted by magenta Crayola. Armie wanted them all over him. He’d never experienced this level of _need_ for anyone, particularly someone he’d spoken a couple of sentences to at most. He felt embarrassed. Whatever this feeling was, felt alien. Something he needed to confront. So he’d wait until Timothee had escaped the restraints of the bar, the barricade between the two of them, to investigate the whole thing further.

Armie was usually the expert at this kind of thing. Usually being that he was often being chased or approached, to the extent of wanting to avoid them. It wasn’t that he was afraid of commitment, more that the connection wasn’t there. He enjoyed a casual fling as much as the next person, but expected something to develop at least once they’d shared a bed multiple times. But there was nothing. Perhaps he kept his guard up to much. That’s what his therapist claimed at least, only he walked out (a door slam obviously involved) of the appointment the moment she’d _accused_ him of it.

Armie looked up to the bar.

 

He’d gone.

 

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

“Looking for someone?”

His mouth was only an inch from Armie’s ear, to avoid shouting over the music. He was stood on his tip-toes to complete this task and sunk back to comfort once having achieved it, and the reaction from his recipient. Armie’s reaction being a flinch of his shoulders, risen in discomfort and apprehension, a natural bodily response when feeling under threat. He forced a nervous laugh when he recognised the voice, _his_ voice, and turned to face him. No barrier between them. Inches apart. The need to restrain from reaching out and touching him, somewhere, somehow, was painful.

“Perhaps,” Armie murmured, lowering his head to mirror Timmy’s former method of communication. His lips meeting Timmy’s ear in what felt like a teasing, playful interaction. “Seems my favourite bartender has been fired though.”

“Not fired,” Timmy replied, now meeting Armie’s gaze with confidence. The fact he had to look up at him to do so was all the more encouragement he needed to mark his ground. This was his territory, his familiar location. He wasn’t allowing himself to feel uncomfortable _here_ . If having to force himself to stare Armie out-right, to convince himself as well as this stranger that he was confident and nonchalant, then any attempts at that acting career would be put to good use. The acting career he’d left behind. You’re scared of rejection, his therapist had said. _That’s what his she’d claimed at least. He walked out (a door slam obviously involved) of the appointment the moment she’d accused him of it._

“Let off for this evening. One night only.” He continued with a smirk, licking his lips out of habit. The habit working to his advantage, as he sensed Armie’s gaze lingering there instantly.

“Any plans?” Armie asked, moving his feet in what he attempted rhythmically.

“Depends.”

Armie raised his eyebrow inquisitively, awaiting further information.

“If I have company.”  Timmy held Armie’s gaze then turned his head towards the exit.

He sensed others’ stares on the two of them as they pushed through the crowd, their fingers lingering on each other’s palms tentatively. Not wanting to give too much, make any ‘first moves’ whilst simultaneously bridging the gap, the anticipation, with deliberate tension.

 

* * *

 

“I owe you a beer, if I remember correctly.”

Timmy reached into his fridge only to find the shelf often home to lager cans, empty. He sighed in what he hoped was at inaudible volume, and looked up at his guest with a grimace. _Typical._

Armie shrugged it off with encouragement, sensing Timmy’s embarrassment. He observed the apartment, spacious not in terms of size but limited belongings. A couple of paperbacks sat on the bed-side table. The kid had furniture but nothing that screamed personality, nothing that gave insight into who he was. Mystery boy who pulled pints with skill, and men with equally limited effort required. No photo-frames, candles or potted plants. The closed book, ambiguity of the place left Armie feeling uneasy. That was until he turned back to face his host, who smiled at him hesitantly, anticipating some sort of comment. But Armie had nothing to say, he couldn’t figure this guy out.

“Do you live alone?”

Timmy nodded, placing two glasses of water on the table adjacent to the bed. No sofa.

“Is this to sober me up?” Armie smirked, in effort to lighten the mood but also to avoid any silences. He sipped the water gratefully, and his gaze rested on the floorboards.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t got anything else in.” He said this accusingly almost, as if he were angry at himself. Armie shook his head in attempted reassurance, trying to relieve any pressure that had built up.

Armie perched on the edge of the bed with hesitation, regretting it instantly. Timmy was watching him, feeling more in control of the situation now he wasn’t pleasing a customer as before. In fact, he quite enjoyed observing Armie, watching his entertainment with wide-eyes. It was like a spoiler, if he got lucky that was. Translated to watching Armie squirm at his touch. Only he was stood metres away, no movement required.

“So?” Armie gulped, before releasing a sigh from his lips. _Calm the fuck down, what’s gotten into you?_ He forced his head up. Timmy was now stood beside him. He could hear his breath, ringing in his ears which worked to combat the silence that felt suffocating. Some sort of noise. Timmy’s fingers, thin and elegant. An adjective Armie never knew could be synonymous with man. His fingertips traced lightly across Armie’s jaw in anticipation, as if he required permission. As if Armie’s response, speechless and out of character, wasn’t enough to say ‘take my clothes off, already.’

“Fancy a fuck?”

_“Always.”_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm wantedyoutoknow on Tumblr :o) Thank you so much for reading. Yes, this is slow-burn, I'm sorry to say - but the sexy stuff IS coming, I promise. ;)


	3. Their Performance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I really hope this pays off. *posts with awkward look across face, turning away from laptop*
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! :)

“Fancy a fuck?”

_“Always.”_

 

Armie’s confidence had returned to him as if he’d been gifted it. Something he took as a given, one of his most prominent characteristics, he suddenly felt grateful for. He stood up from the bed sharply, towering over the skinny boy whose skin was illuminated by the street-lamp’s glow through the blind.

The tension was unbearable. Had Timmy not traced Armie’s jawline with his fingertips, Armie would’ve been tempted to escape the whole thing, cringing at his unfamiliar shyness by pretending he’d felt sick. But instead, the instant effect of Timmy’s delicacy, the very trace of his skin against _his_ skin, had ignited the flame inside him that was just-flickering, previously shadowed by immense self-doubt. Armie had risen from the bed, gulped with an inhale he knew was audible amidst the silence of the room, but by this point he’d mustered the ability to silence his mind. _Shut the fuck up brain, just take him already. You’ve done this more times than you can count._

Timmy was humoured by the sudden role-reversal from their former meeting over the bar. Now, Armie was the one flushed and struggling for how to perform.

“Fuck it. Fuck me.” Timmy muttered, harsher than initially intended, and grabbed Armie by the waist so their torsos were touching. Fully-clothed, yet the interaction somehow brought a shortness of breath, which was aided by Armie’s mouth pressed against Tim’s in a rushed embrace, almost missing him and slipping a tooth against his lip. Armie laughed against Timmy’s lips at their clumsy behaviour, a poor show for two adults who should know what they’re doing by now. _How did this feel so unfamiliar, so new, so rig-_

Armie slipped his tongue into Timmy’s mouth, greeted by an involuntary moan that was released from Timmy’s throat before he’d had chance to restrain it. Now using his strength to its potential, Armie pushed Timmy against the wall, adjacent to the blind, shadowing them from the outside world. Timmy’s lips were soft and delicate against his own, he sensed his beard served as some foreign object against the texture of  Timmy’s practically pubescent skin. Everything about Timmy was smooth and comforting. How wrong Armie had been, placing him on a pedestal as something he was unworthy of. Sure, he was captivating and a cause for weak-knees, but to touch he was the furthest from untouchable. Their bodies aligned as one, working in-sync as they yanked at each other’s clothing in famished desperation.

“Open the blind.” Armie growled into Timmy’s mouth, just about managing to vocalise all the thoughts that were spiralling in one interchangeable combination.

“Wha-”

“I said open the blind. I want to fuck you against the window.”

Timmy’s mouth turned up in a smug smile against Armie’s lips. The power imbalance had sorted itself. Now, Timmy stood back to the glass, Armie infront of him, both of them topless. Timmy traced the line of Armie’s crotch, already hard against the denim of his jeans. The teasing of Timmy’s fingers adjusting the material caused friction against Armie’s cock, releasing a high-pitched gasp from the straight-face facade Armie was so desperately attempting.

“Such a fucking tease.” Armie muttered, his fingers under Timmy’s chin harshly, to tilt his face in line with his own.

“You love it.”

“Turn around.”

Timmy rested his face against the glass. The New York skyline now a backdrop to their performance. The buildings working to illuminate the ghostly white silhouette of Timmy’s back.

“Well, I didn't take you for the exhibitionist type.” Timmy muttered sarcastically with a grin plastered across his face. His jaw was pressed into the glass uncomfortably, yet he daren’t complain.

Armie moaned in response and with a start, placed his palm across Timmy’s mouth. Timmy’s lips pressed against the warmth of Armie’s hand, now some make-shift restraint. In seconds, with one hand alone, Armie pulled Timmy’s trousers to the floor, his boxers seconds later. Any concerns Timmy had of being naked, supposedly vulnerable, in view from the city, were abandoned in seconds. Before he had chance to think, Armie lips were pressing into his neck in harsh kisses, moving in rushed formation to silence any coherent responses Timmy could have. Just as he wanted to mumble or release any sign of satisfaction, there was new sensation _elsewhere_. His brain couldn’t keep up.

Now Timmy understood silence by definition, his mouth against the glass, both of Armie’s hands were free to graze every inch of him. On the cusp of tickling Timmy’s ribs, Armie’s fingers worked with just the right amount of pressure to avoid laughter. Instead, his fingers synchronised on either side of Timmy, moved so slowly down his sides that he let out a whimper of impatience. Hurriedly, causing a gasp from Timmy’s mouth, Armie’s hand grabbed Timmy’s cock forcefully in one hand, his teeth indenting the poised, alabaster paintwork of his shoulder-blade.

“The impression I’m getting is you’re usually a top,” Armie muttered, his fingers grazing the head of Timmy’s uncomfortably hard cock. A whimper was released with every trace of Armie’s finger-tips. In desperation, Timmy’s hips began thrusting into Armie’s palm before he’d even acknowledged doing so.

“I’m… I’m pretty versatile.” Timmy managed, his lips still pressed the window which softened the volume. The glass was cooling against the heat of his lips. Sweat dampening his hairline.

“Not tonight you’re not.” Armie grinned, his lips embedded in Timmy’s skin as if they were naturally aligned. Mouth to mouth. Skin to skin.

Before Timmy had chance to protest or offer any alternative, Armie had pushed his index finger, dripping with lube, inside of him. Timmy let out a muffled moan, grinding himself against the invasive contact that penetrated him. Being blind to Armie’s actions was both unnerving and exhilarating.

“Fu-ck,” Timmy mumbled. In response to Timmy’s words, Armie grasped his neck with his free-hand in a choke-hold, feeling Timmy swallowing gulp against his fingers.

“That’s it, good boy.” Armie muttered in satisfaction. The praise alone, his opinion, served as some new, unexplored kink for Timmy; his hips wriggled at his words. He wanted to _impress_ him, something he’d never experienced until now.

Another finger. And another.

“Fuck me,” Timmy groaned in frustration, both at the anticipation and his muted words against the glass. His voice was practically inaudible against the window, which was solved suddenly by Armie releasing him from the position. He spun him round effortlessly, as if he’d flipped him over, pulling him by strings. Now facing him, Timmy wrapped his arms around Armie’s neck, pulling his face in line with his own. Their lips intertwined, hungrily, as if they couldn’t get _close enough._ As if with some superhuman strength which left Timmy wide-eyed and shaken, Armie lifted Timmy up by his thighs, holding him up against the glass.

He was inside him.

Timmy let out a whimper, the discomfort of his spine hitting the glass behind him as Armie thrusted into him in some new-found rhythm. 

“You’re not allowed to come until I tell you to, do you understand?” Armie muttered against Timmy’s lips.

“Mm,” Timmy managed. “Gah.”

Inaudible sounds released from Timmy’s lips, repeated back to him by Armie. The experience interwoven, his and his. Who knew whose words, whose voice was whose. Indetectable; every atom, every breath, every exhale had emerged. _Ours._

_“I’m not promising anything.”_

 

* * *

 

Armie cradled Timmy in his arms, the man’s legs wrapped around his waist, and lowered him on to the mattress. Timmy’s eyelids now visible, his mouth relaxed in a half-smile. If this is what he looked like when he slept, Armie only wished sleep wasn’t something that was necessary. Instead, he’d have given anything to watch Timmy sleep, curled up and nestled into the duvet. Peaceful.

Only he didn’t admit to that, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t know if he was supposed to settle beside him or get dressed and leave.

Would he leave a number? Would he even be remembered by the morning?

Timmy’s naked body, porcelain and radiant in the twilight, was now branded by Armie’s touch. Faint bruises had painted his back; bite marks tarnished his collarbones.

Timmy mumbled something inaudible, eyes shut, mouth covered by the duvet. His curls piled up in some abstract, messy display across the pillow. _Angelic._

 

He said it twice. Only decoded in the second instance.

 

“Don’t go.”


	4. A Puzzle in Itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week has passed after their night together. Armie knows he shouldn't, doubts himself. He's met the guy once, he hardly knows him. But there's a feeling in his gut that he wants to test out. He knows exactly where Timmy spends his Friday nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: some homophobic slurs/references to family prejudice

The following Friday. 12:05am. Timmy yawns his way through most the shift and pesters his manager. Surely one drink on the house should really be a staff incentive? No drinking on shift makes things boring. Geez, downing a couple of pints would perk him up a little. Instead, Timmy shuffles round the bar lethargically, singing along to this week’s playlist with an energy that should be applauded. Of course, flirting with the occasional customer is part of the job and is as natural as breathing for Timmy. If the man in front of him flashes him a smile, his job is to convince him to spend more. 2-for-1 cocktails, both for himself of course. Or occasionally he'd play cupid; encourage a lonely gentleman to spark conversation with another local singleton. _Why not treat that hot guy nearby to one too?_

Timmy knew he was good at his job, his colleagues envied him and his comfortability in the role; pulling pints with one hand and pouring (and spilling) spirits with the other. Usually, he’d dance around the bar, moving his hips in an almost-provocative manner in time with the beat and catching the eye of most.

Only tonight, he just wasn’t feeling it.

12:25am. A familiar voice called his name like he’s singing, extending each syllable like he’s awaiting applause for his vocal range. Timmy recognises the accent instantly. Marcus. He turns to face him and attempts the most convincing smile he can muster. The two of them were largely similar in appearance. Dark curly hair, full-lips, tall and dignified. The only distinct difference was Marcus’ glasses, red square frames which gave him a cosmopolitan quality that Timmy found sexy.

Particularly when he was wearing nothing else but the specs.

“Tim-o-thée,” Marcus announced with lyrical quality. He leaned over the bar and kissed Tim on both cheeks, a greeting that was familiar not just of Marcus but of memories Timmy treasured. Childhood summers in France with his family, which felt like another life right now. Marcus’ character felt comforting, maybe that’s what Timmy liked so much. _Well, that and he enjoyed rimming more than most people. Maybe it was a French boy thing._

“You finish,” Marcus began with a pause, questioning his choice of words. He rarely spoke in English, except for when he was Timmy was behind the bar, so time wasn’t spent with confused looks and translations. “At… three?” He held up three fingers to ensure he was heard over the speakers, and out of habit for repeating himself had become routine. Either misheard or ignored.

Timmy nodded, not quite meeting his gaze. Saying no would be the first time he’d rejected Marcus’ request and he felt awkward. It was rare that he’d turn down sex, particularly with someone he was attracted to. He thought a lot of Marcus, respected him. He was charming, well-mannered and had a level of class that intimidated Timmy slightly. He knew Marcus was visiting family last weekend which explained his absence. Not that seeing other people was against the rules, they weren’t exclusive. They hadn’t hung out or seen each other any other occasion than these Friday night hook-ups. But the pursed lips and hesitation in Timmy’s eyes was evident to Marcus immediately. He rose both hands in the air as if surrendering, proving his innocence; that he wasn’t assuming anything.

“No no, it’s not that I don’t want to, I ju-”

Timmy stopped with a start. The man behind Marcus was unavoidable. 6’5, golden hair glistening under the strobe lights. Timmy’s eyes widened in disbelief, mouth straight in an uncomfortable grimace, panic arising. He sucked in his cheeks, gnawing on sides of his mouth with his teeth. _Fuck._

“Sorry, if I’m interrupting something, I’ll -” Armie began, signalling Marcus with an interrogating glance. Timmy blinked forcefully, just to have something to do and also to ensure this was actually happening. As if on cue, Marcus turned around, in line with Armie’s torso before looking up at the giant staring at him.

“What is,” Marcus turned back to Timmy, in effort to disguise his disappointment, he shot him a roll of the eyes before glaring at him. “ _Oh._ ”

“Marcus, I,” Timmy began, his temples pulsating intensely. He didn’t know if it was the volume of the music, but a buzzing noise was echoing in his ears. “It’s nothing. You can stay, I’ll -”

“Forget it.” Marcus muttered, raising his middle finger up at his bartender. He didn’t turn back once, not to ask anything more or communicate with Armie. There was no need. The atmosphere between them, the tension, the intensity of their stares needed no words.

“Hi,” Armie muttered with a smirk at the foreigner’s behaviour, who had somehow become his opponent. He wasn’t expecting confrontation from a stranger. If anything, he expected Timmy to be the one to walk out at his presence.

Timmy gulped forcefully in effort to hydrate the raw, aching pain in his throat.

 

“Hi.”

 

* * *

 

Armie wasn’t sure why he’d walked back in there, second week running. He avoided gay-clubs like the plague usually, preferring to keep his sexuality on the down-low and not parade around with rainbow flags for the fun of it. He always saw what people see as embracing his sexuality a bit in-your-face so to speak, and he didn’t want others to see it as the central part of his being, so why would he encourage that kind of judgement? But, here he was. Okay, _yes._ Deep down, he knew exactly why he’d chosen to spend his Friday night surrounded by topless men dancing with glitter showering their torsos; drag queens stroking his shoulders as he walked past. He hadn’t intended to even speak to the guy. Just see him again in the flesh. Test out if this kid was all his mind was telling him he was cracked up to be. Maybe his drunken state had played him up to be an Adonis figure and he needed to convince himself otherwise and move the fuck on.

How he’d survived the past week, particularly given how things were left between the two of them, was a puzzle in itself. The past six days had felt hazy and distant, like he was just mindlessly floating, getting by. Anticipation, perhaps, until he knew he’d see Timothee again.

They’d awoken intertwined in Timmy’s bed, Armie’s arm hanging comfortably across their pillows, Timmy nestled into his collarbone with a contented smile. Armie had woken first, and was pleasantly surprised to find Timmy so effortlessly embedded into his space. They’d hardly spoken, spent only the night in shared company and yet it were as if words were unnecessary, over-rated given this newfound intimacy they’d created in such minimal time. That was, until Timmy stirred with wide-eyes and a frown he’d let loose, which he instantly tried to conceal. But it was too late for that.

Armie pulled back immediately, as if to protect himself. His eyes searching Timmy’s face for the cause of this, any indication as to why he was so startled, so suddenly. What was wrong with this boy?

 

_“Why are you here?”_

_“You asked me to stay.”_

_“Wha-,” Timmy frowned deliberately now, as if in self-defense._

_“You did. I asked if I should go and you insisted I sleep here. With you.”_

_“Well, now I’m asking you to leave. Get out.”_

 

Armie gulped, moving frantically off the bed. Grabbed his clothes. Keys, wallet, phone. Glanced back once at Timmy, sat up in the bed, who wouldn’t meet his gaze. The tone he’d used mirrored that of his Father's, and opening his mouth to protest, ask questions, say _anything_ , would’ve risked a voice-break. A helpless stammer and glazed pupils. _You’re a pussy, Armand. You’re weak. No son of mine is a faggot._

Armie practically ran out the door, slamming it behind him. His throat felt encompassed by barbed-wire.

 

_What the fuck just happened?_

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing here?” Timmy mumbled. Armie’s face instigated emotions in parallel. Wholeness, something people raved about in the novels he’d read and love songs, this completeness when their bodies were intertwined. But an equal proportion of guilt. They hadn’t spoken since. Armie hadn’t left his number, as much as Tim was hoping for a second chance - maybe he’d have stumbled across a post-it note on the fridge with a cell number scribbled on it. But nothing, and he didn’t blame the man, of course. Timmy’s life was a mess and bringing someone else into it wasn’t fair on anyone.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Armie smirked, to himself and his stupidity than Timmy. “Wanted to see you. I, I can go.” He’d met the guy once and to anyone else, himself if it were a friend, he’d say the whole thing was ridiculous. But the gut-wrenching, suffocating ache hadn’t budged for days and he had to test it. Know if Timmy felt it too. That, or if he’d tell him to fuck off again. Call him a stalker. Call the police? Honestly, who knew at this point.

To Armie’s surprise, and confusion, Timmy beamed. He wanted to shrug it off, play it cool. If anything, he didn’t deserve this opportunity that Armie had granted him and why he’d even shown up here after their goodbye felt foreign and concerning. Was he messing with him?

“Was he,” Armie stumbled for how to ask, didn’t know if he had any right to. “... Boyfriend?”

Timmy laughed, shrugging his shoulders, unable to meet the intensity of Armie’s gaze. “No, no. It was just a casual thing.”

“Like us then, really?”

 

Out of habit, Timmy’s hand rested on the bar as if to steady himself. Ground him amidst the drunken groups, or when exhaustion took hold and he felt like he was floating. A warmth now cradled it, Armie's soft palm resting on top of Timmy's hand. Timmy stared at it in disbelief. Not a flinch, squeeze or trace of fingers.  _I don't deserve this._

This was a new kind of floating. Even meeting Armie’s eyes was transgressing science, common knowledge. Gravity didn’t exist.

Timmy’s stomach was flipping with some unknown, comforting nausea. His heart had made a home in his stomach. 

“No, no, I,” Timmy stuttered. He gulped and inhaled sharply.

 

“I’m, I’m glad you came.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this chapter wasn't too boring! This is mostly clearing stuff up and starts their relationship off nicely. Any questions you have about Armie's past/Timmy's circumstances (their thought processes etc, italicised), should all make sense soon, I hope! Thank you so much for reading. I'm wantedyoutoknow on Tumblr! xx


	5. I've Been There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie and Timmy meet in daylight for the first time (!!!) and talk things through. Timmy has some explaining to do and Armie finds himself resonating with the guy more than he ever anticipated.

So, they’d agreed to go for coffee. Well, agreed sounded like they needed convincing or were cutting ties.Which, in a way they were. _God, everything about this, whatever this is, is back-to-front. Meet. Fuck. Then go for coffee. Isn’t this meant to be a first-date thing?_ Is this even a date?

Armie’s brain was racing, spiralling in incoherent thoughts that grated against his temples. This was so unlike him, so out of character that he checked in the mirror, foolishly, if his reflection mimicked the change he’d been experiencing. Nope, few more creases to the forehead than years back, but identical other than that. Only no appetite, unable to sleep and a guy he’d met once, no twice, parading around his thoughts like he owned them. _The bastard._

Saturday morning. Things last night had been left amicably and open. Timmy muttered an apology of sorts, suggested coffee and that he owed Armie an explanation. Armie agreed, nothing to lose. They were meeting in a diner in the square, a few subway stops from Timmy’s apartment from what Armie had remembered. No Friday night together, no promises, just a ‘see you in the morning’ and a final squeeze of the hand.

Armie felt nauseous about the whole thing the very instant he awoke. Perhaps he’d felt sick subconsciously too made worse by minimal sleep, or maybe it’d started the moment he’d left the bar. Either way this discomfort sat, uninvited, in his gut like a drunk aunt at a family get-together. _Just make her leave._

He downed a pint of water, showered and wore his best shirt with jeans. Smart-casual. How he felt, the over-thinking, the disorientating disconcertion felt melodramatic, given that he’d met the guy twice, fucked once and they were now meeting for coffee to ‘talk.’ Yet he’d never felt so determined to make a good impression with anyone.

Armie was always early, regardless of the knowledge of _knowing_ he was always early. He sat in one of the booths of the diner, tapping his foot for both something to do and as a nervous habit (the two had become interchangeable.) He picked the skin around his left thumb, and after being asked twice by the waiter if he wanted to order, eventually gave in.

“Americano, please. I’m waiting for someone so I’ll order food after.”

As he opened his mouth, he clocked Timmy out the corner of his eye, walking in hesitantly with his face to the floor. Armie didn’t know whether to wave, stand up or both. Timmy was in all black, the same outfit as the past two Fridays, and his hair was still damp from showering (although Armie did glance at the window to check if the weather had drastically changed to a down-pour. _Please no, pathetic fallacy._ ) Luckily for his superstitions, the sun was still blazing and Timmy squinted as he looked across the room, the sunlight blinding him through the windows. He spotted Armie, sat with a nervous smile across his face, and sported a grin in his direction.

“Well hello stranger,” Timmy murmured, taking a seat opposite him, not meeting his gaze.

“Hi,” Armie smiled, his hands resting on the table in effort to look open and engaged. “You found it okay then?”

“Just,” Timmy smirked. “I’m sorry I’m late, I should’ve left sooner but I couldn’t decide what to wear. _God_ , that sounds lame.”

“You went for the usual then.” Armie smirked playfully, nodding towards Timmy’s plain black shirt.

Timmy’s lip twitched upward in a brief smile. He opened his mouth to continue but stopped himself suddenly, reconsidering his response. Armie clocked this, eyes widening slightly, but didn’t comment. Instead, he eyed up the menu. “You ordered yet?”

“Nope. Well, I ordered a coffee, the waiter wouldn’t stop pestering me.”

Timmy looked up, surveying the room for staff. He caught Armie watching him. “Maybe he _likes_ you.”

Armie scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Jealous, are we?”

“A little.”

Armie looked toward the table instantly, a smile playing on his lips. He felt his cheeks warming and took a sip of table water in effort to cool not only his evident blushing, but his nerves. It didn’t help. Whenever he so much as glanced at Timmy, the nausea would kick back in, like a bees’ hive hibernating in his stomach.

To both of their surprise, the conversation was free-flowing and effortless. Armie asked about Timmy’s bartender position, how long he’d been doing it, if he worked other than Friday. Armie drank two mugs of coffee, Timmy stuck with table water. When asked to order, Armie _announced_ his request without even acknowledging the menu. “Burger and sweet potato fries, of course, my friend.”

Timmy hesitated, said he wasn’t hungry.

Armie looked up with a raised eyebrow, which Timmy failed to acknowledge. We’re out, in a restaurant, and he’s not ordering _anything_? He gulped. This felt awkward. Had it been a family member, a friend, he would’ve pushed them to at least order something small (which if they couldn’t finish it, he would without being asked.)

“You okay?” Armie asked, tilting his head purposefully to try and catch Timmy’s eye.

“Me okay,” Timmy muttered, his eyes now falling on Armie’s hands which had found permanent residence on the table, clasped together comfortably. He was so self-assured, so comfortable in his surroundings. Timmy only ever mirrored that phlegmatic persona when behind the bar. Perhaps the daylight affected them differently. Timmy smirked to himself.

“I’m, I’m just struggling for cash at the moment. Got to watch the bank. I’m sorry if that’s awkward for you.”

Timmy blinked, wide-eyed. He shook his head and grabbed Timmy’s hand with next-to-no hesitation, which surprised both of them. “Wha-,” he began.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“No! Timmy, no! Don’t be ridiculous. I was going to buy you dinner anyway, you goose.”

Timmy looked up slowly, his eyelids flickering from the light’s intrusion. His eyelashes were remarkably long, so much so that they cast a faint shadow across his cheekbones. Armie wanted to kiss his eyelids, feel his eyelashes trace his cheeks as Timmy’s head found a resting-place in the alcove of Armie’s shoulder. Why he was even contemplating this was foreign and unsettling, he hardly knew the guy. But Timmy’s character, both guarded and warm - seemingly such an alien combination, was captivating. He smirked to himself at such foolishness. _Ah, well, better than the sickness this morning. I’d choose cringey bullshit any day._

“Oh,” Timmy smirked. “Didn’t realise this was a _date._ ” He accentuated the word, making his tongue run across his lips briefly, which Armie couldn’t avoid staring at. He looked away just as quickly; blood rushing to his cheeks.

“Oh, well, I was just being polite.” Armie smirked back. He initially hesitated then kicked Timmy’s leg under the table before he had chance to second-guess himself. Timmy yelped, both out of shock and disbelief. The two of them chuckled, shaking their heads at each other. Was this really their first time hanging out? _Why and how did this feel so easy?_

“I think I have some explaining to do then,” Timmy mumbled before taking another sip of water. Armie pushed the remainders of his coffee towards Timmy. He initially hesitated, fingers trembling against the mug, but then accepted it gratefully, his lips turning upwards as they met the china. _This guy is… kind. So kind._

“Mm?” Armie murmured with a raised eyebrow. He shifted his hands, resting his chin on his left palm, both out of increased relaxation in the situation and to look interested. He could sense Timmy was a nervous talker, from the shaking of his voice and struggle to make eye-contact for any longer than a few seconds.

“For telling you to fuck off last week,” he murmured, now meeting Armie’s gaze with sadness glazing his pupils. “I was completely out of line and it was wrong of me.”

“That’s okay, I -” Armie began, before Timmy cut him short.

“I guess I, I guess,” Timmy muttered, before frowning at himself, followed by a subtle smile. “Let me re-phrase. I have trust issues to an extent. Fear of people coming in, knowing me, me placing trust in them and then them just leave. They always do.”

Armie nodded sympathetically. He resonated with that, that fear of another human knowing him better than he knew himself. Fuck, he’d been there many times and each ended in heartache.

“When I came out, my Dad, he,” Timmy gulped, again sighing to himself at his difficulty articulating, phrasing things. He was so concerned as to how Armie would perceive him, which was presumptuous for that would require Armie to like him. They hardly knew each other, _for fuck’s sake._ Timmy swallowed deeply, before a sharp inhale to control his breathing. “He kicked me out. Screaming at me, telling me I’m not doing any of that business under his roof.”

Armie’s mouth gaped in disbelief. He couldn’t take his eyes off him. Timmy was expressive in his speech, using his hands as he talked. He wanted to participate in the conversation, offer sound effects whilst simultaneously not wanting to interrupt, to halt Timmy’s supposed monologue for fear he wouldn’t have the honour of hearing it twice.

“So, I left. Was homeless for a couple of months, but that’s another story. Prior to this, I’d dropped out of drama school. All I ever wanted to do was be an actor, it’s my life, it’s all I’m good at. Well, besides pulling pints, of course,” Timmy managed sarcasm, perhaps as a nervous habit for when things got too serious. He winked at Armie, to which Armie smiled at him with encouragement, as if to say _‘don’t change the subject.’_

“My parents said they couldn’t afford it anymore, which was bullshit. They didn’t want to. Fuck, they pay for my sister’s education, splashing the cash like it’s nothing.” he gritted his teeth as he said this, his fists clenched.

“That sucks, man,” Armie murmured, again squeezing Timmy’s fist to release the tension and isolation he’d built up. “I’m so sorry, that’s awful. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything, it’s okay,” Timmy murmured, a faint smile emerging. “That’s life. You trust people, expect them to be there no matter what, right? And what do they do? Kick you out for something you can’t control, then screw over the one chance you have at a career.”

Armie winced. Timmy felt his hand twitch under his own and squeezed it. He looked up at Armie, finally, not realising he’d technically been talking at the table the whole time.

“I’ve been there.”

Timmy raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“My Dad, he couldn’t accept it either. Still hasn’t.”

They looked at each other, staring without the connotations associated with such a response. This wasn’t judgemental or intrusive, didn’t require a look-away or apology for looking for too long. They enjoyed what they could observe, now seeing more, when nothing, physically, had altered. The location, the same. Physically, no different. But Armie saw more of Timmy in the past five minutes than he had done when they were physically vulnerable with each other. _Geez, he’d fucked the guy senseless facing the New York skyline, who knew you could see any more of a person?_ Which felt overwhelming but in a comforting sense, like heat without a breeze. It’s uncomfortable but you can adapt to it, for the alternative wouldn’t be preferred.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Timmy murmured, then interrupted by Armie’s food being brought over. Armie was now the furthest from famished. The sickness had returned, only this time he knew it was shared.

“Timmy,” Armie began, once the waiter had left them in peace after asking again if Timmy wanted anything. “I’m not going anywhere. I mean that.”

Timmy smirked, resisting an eye roll. “I appreciate the sentiment, man, but.”

“I mean it. Yes, I hardly know you, before you throw that out there. But I’d fucking like to, if you’d give me the chance.”

Timmy blinked, both out of disbelief and as something to do, recognising he’d been staring at Armie solidly without so much as a shift of an eyelid. Seemed that involuntary human functions had become non-existent now. _I have to remember to blink around him? Jesus fucking Christ._

Armie smiled broadly, picking at his fries with utter dissatisfaction.

When no words escaped Timmy’s mouth, Armie kicked his leg under the table again, lightly.

Timmy flinched, scowling at his newfound threat with wide-eyes.

“Well?”

Timmy sighed deliberately, rolling his eyes with a melodramatic fashion. Armie should’ve known he was a drama kid. _Fucking typical._

“Okay.”

“What?”

“Okay!” Timmy exclaimed, hitting Armie on the arm playfully with a smirk. He could no longer meet his gaze. “Okay, fine. On one condition.”

Armie raised an eyebrow with anticipation. “Try me.”

“You let me eat that fucking hamburger. You’re looking at it like its vermin.”

Armie howled in laughter, throwing his head back carelessly. He sensed other customers’ eyes now on the two of them, but if they were going to stare, they may as well give them their money’s worth. He pushed his plate towards Timmy, shoving fries into his mouth as he did so.

“You’re not one for patience, are you?”

Timmy winked, having now passed any barriers that put flirting off-limits.

“Hey, if you don’t ask, you don’t get.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and your wonderful, unexpected responses to this thing! I can't believe how lovely you all are and your feedback is so kind and so appreciated. Thank you. <3  
> My tumblr is wantedyoutoknow, if you wanted to know ;) 
> 
> More coming soon, I promise!


	6. What Do You Want From Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter than others, apologies! It felt necessary to get this out the way and I hope it's not too disappointing! I'm not particularly proud of it in all honesty, ah well. :o) I hope it's okay and from here onward, the plot can really develop (*crosses fingers*!)

 

“Make yourself at home,” Armie announced with a smile, slipping his shoes off in the wide hallway. He walked leisurely towards the kitchen, turning off the alarm system as he did so. Timmy stood against the door, taking in the size of the place. Armie’s world. The place was pristine, with marble tops and modern, white-washed interior. It felt too clean, not lived in. _Did the guy have a maid or something?_

Armie had invited Timmy back to his which was received with a raised eyebrow, to which Armie stressed ‘not for _that_ reason!’ More that they were getting frustrated eyes from the waiter, having spent three hours chatting in a diner with limited tables.

Timmy felt that even sitting down in the kitchen would mark something; would infect the polished, untouched nature of Armie’s space. The blank walls, the monochrome colours. It felt like stepping into a home catalogue for those who worked in the city with a wife, dog and a sports car in the garage. Some parallel universe that Timmy didn’t belong in. The tightness in his chest had returned, and as some sort of uncontrollable coping mechanism, his barriers were being re-built. This wasn’t Timmy’s place. He’d never felt so alienated.

“Do you want a drink?” Armie asked, opening the fridge. Timmy struggled to look up from the floor, perching on the very edge of the a stool as if it were the edge of a cliff-face with nothing to grab onto.

“No, I’m okay, thanks.”

Armie looked up hesitantly, expecting to meet Timmy’s gaze which he’d been so fortunate to share just minutes before. Only now, the man may as well have walked out and left. Just metres away, head hung forward so his hair fell across his eyes.

“What’s up?”

Timmy looked up, startled at Armie’s change in tone. He sounded hurt? The whole thing felt suffocating, which was ironic given the quantity of open space. The kitchen was fucking huge.

_I don’t owe you anything, I hardly know you._

“Ah, nothing. Just tired, I guess.” Timmy muttered, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He began tapping his fingers on the island where Armie’s laptop and mail sat. What looked like official documents, statements, bills. All opened then re-homed in their torn envelopes. Timmy didn’t even know what Armie did for a living, he didn’t want to. This visit had come like a reality check and the longer he sat there, uncomfortably, the stronger the sickness in his stomach churned. He knew the selfishness of what he was about to do. It wasn’t what Armie deserved. But Armie wasn’t what Timmy deserved, he didn’t deserve this man. He was too kind and worthy of way more than a kid with a dollar to his name and an apartment he was struggling to afford. Their lives were embarrassingly apart. Timmy flinched at the thought of knowing any more. If he left now, he could avoid getting any more invested in this thing, whatever it was.

He stood up from the stool, slipping on his shoes as he did so.

“You’re leaving?” Armie scoffed. His diction sounded shaken, like he’d lost faith in his own voice for what he said was ineffective. A waste of breath.

Timmy could only manage a nod. He didn’t look up, just in case Armie’s reaction would knock him backward, where decision making was no longer his choice alone. That part of him, the half that was on the cusp of chance and possibility, needed resealing. _I can’t do this._

“But you said,” Armie started, but couldn’t continue. Disbelief had overcome him, had taken the potentiality of speech from his reach.

“I know, but I figured it’d save you the effort when that time comes.”

Armie’s mouth dropped. He began pacing the room, unable to look at his guest who hadn’t yet left. He could’ve told him to leave, but doing so would only support his theory. That he wasn’t wanted here.

“You’re so convinced that’s going to happen? What if I told you I _actually_ planned on sticking around? We hardly know each other, but what if that could be a good enough reason to try? You don’t know what I want, Tim. You don’t know me!” Armie slammed his glass against the counter, shaking his head. His fists clenched.

“What do you want from me, eh? Armie, this place probably costs a week what I earn in a month.” Timmy scoffed, shaking his head at the supposed humour he was convinced served as reason for the situation they’d found themselves in.  “This whole thing is a joke.”

“Then why even meet me today, eh? Why waste your _valuable_ time to sit with me for hours?” Armie was past the point of restraint now. He’d abandoned the patience he so fondly prized in himself and the anger that was brewing scared him. _I’m not that guy anymore._

Timmy lingered against the bar stool, unable to meet Armie’s gaze which was no longer hesitant in its approach. Instead, he stared at Timmy outright with disbelief and frustration.

“Well?” Armie snapped, now crossing his arms across his chest.

“I don’t know.” Timmy muttered, his speech slurring slightly at the intensity of the situation. Timmy hated confrontation and avoided it at all costs. Now, he was in an environment completely alien to him, with a man who scared him. Armie himself wasn’t the cause of his fear, he felt safe in his company. Timmy was afraid of the potentiality of Armie walking away. Timmy was afraid of not being enough, just as he hadn’t been for so many others.

“What?”

“I said I don’t know!” Timmy repeated with irritation. He looked up, his lip now quivering. He swallowed forcefully in effort to control himself, his breathing, his inability to hold Armie’s gaze for anything longer than a second.

_“Of course you don’t know.”_

Timmy winced at Armie’s remark, as if it were some attack at their differences. As if Timmy were inadequate. He inhaled deeply, eyes shut, just as Susan had taught him. _Deep breaths, Timothee._ Then, Timmy chuckled to himself.

Armie looked up with a raised eyebrow and the slight rise of the lip that accompanied it.

“Are you happy I came here? ” Timmy murmured, now twisting his thumb ring as means of relaxation; a distraction.

Armie spluttered, shaking his head. “I can’t keep up with you.”

Then, he let all the distance between them, the physical and internal, subside. In seconds, Armie’s palms rested on either side of Timmy’s jaw, his fingers tracing the roots of facial hair that so desperately tried to sprout. The lightness of his stubble-attempt tickled his fingertips. In a jolt of despair, Armie grabbed him from the nape of his neck and pushed his lips against the dampness of the man whose heart was now audible and in line with his own. Timmy’s tongue lingered playfully against Armie’s lower lip, dampening it as if he were watering something dehydrated. Armie grinned at the subtle but intimacy of the gesture, the hesitancy as if to test his response. Timmy’s tongue then traced Armie’s teeth, a technique which he’d never participated in. The whole thing, kissing, an experience shared all those times before, many instances he couldn’t remember, now felt like practice. Timmy’s fingers had found rest in Armie’s hair, which he twisted around the tips of his fingers.

“I’m sorry.” Timmy murmured into Armie’s mouth, practically inaudible amidst the shared space of their lips.

Armie moaned in response, shaking his head slightly. Timmy’s arms now looped around the neck of his taller company, so naturally. Every action required little hesitation, which Timmy tried so hard to not overthink. Trusting someone, this intimacy that feels like coming home, shouldn’t be a cause of fear. It felt like reconditioning his thought processes, his body’s involuntary reactions, to place _Armie_ and _safety_ in the same field _._

“It’s okay.” Armie murmured, almost breathlessly. Timmy’s fingertips tracing his skin made every nerve feel electrified, every touch, every lick, every mark, felt like some form of reawakening.

_“I trust you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra housepoints for those who picked up on the CMBYN references. ;)  
> I'm wantedyoutoknow on tumblr! xx


	7. Make It Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T & A spend some time in the bedroom, before being interrupted by an unexpected phone call.

“So, do you bring all the guys back here?” Timmy asked, cocooned in white sheets with his head nestled into Armie’s _expensive_ pillow. Well, it could be a fairly affordable pillow, but compared to his own, it felt fucking luxurious. Armie lay beside him, immersed in the duvet and Timmy’s skin, their chests touching, their legs intertwined, their lips knitted together, only pausing for the occasional comment or laughter. _Like lovers committing themselves._

“Only the ones who can speak French, make prize-worthy cocktails and suck cock like a champ,” Armie muttered, placing his palm underneath Timmy’s chin and pulling his face towards his own. He slipped his tongue into Timmy’s mouth, and as if it were involuntary, a natural response, Timmy moaned against Armie’s lips.

“Don’t I feel special?” Timmy murmured, smirking against Armie’s mouth, his stubble tickling his chin.

“You should, it’s not everyday I spend four hours fucking.”

“Well, I’m happy to make it five…”

Armie grabbed both of Timmy’s wrists suddenly, holding them in a firm grasp against the headboard. Once Timmy had understood the rules of keeping them there, Armie began tracing Timmy’s neck with his tongue, dampening the familiar protrusion of his neck, which moved against his touch encouraging a moan to escape from Timmy’s lips. Timmy’s lids had enveloped his pupils, his body now tranquil and stilled by Armie’s touch.

“Eyes open. I want you to watch.”

Timmy was hard again in seconds, revealed to Armie as he pushed the duvet aside to ensure Timmy were gifted an unobstructed view. Armie scoffed at the instant arousal initiated by his touch, that he had such an effect on the man lying below him, and how eager and _able_ he was to partake further.

With eyes locking Timmy captive in his gaze, Armie took Timmy’s hard cock with a smug smile, with the knowledge that it was his touch that left Timmy whimpering. With his eyes sealed with Timmy’s wide-eyed stare, Armie’s mouth sucked at the head of Timmy’s cock with a deliberate noise, resembling a ‘pop.’ Armie hummed against the tip of Timmy’s penis, now dripping with pre-cum across his lips which he licked off confidently with a smile, as if he were hydrating them from the cold air. Timmy continued to stare at his performer, wide-eyed and breathless with his approval. Armie cupped Timmy’s now throbbing shaft with one palm, moving up and down with a deliberate nonchalance to which Timmy moaned in frustration.

“Faster.”

Armie stopped suddenly, looking up at the man lying across the mattress with a raised eyebrow.

“Did I give you permission to talk?”

He released his grip and as Timmy opened his mouth to mumble some incoherent despair, began licking down his shaft before sucking each of his balls in turn. Timmy dragged his nails into the sheets, panting.

“Fu-uck,” Timmy moaned from the depth of his throat and began thrusting into Armie’s mouth as if it were an involuntary response that he felt compelled to participate in. Armie handled the sudden invasiveness of Timmy’s cock without any complaint, maintaining a consistent rhythm. Timmy’s fingers now tugging at Armie’s hair, as he sucked at the length of him. Timmy’s hips started shaking beneath Armie’s head.

“I’m going to come.” Timmy whimpered in stuttering diction, his face now nursed into the pillow, overcome with the attentiveness and talent of Armie’s demeanour.

Given the intrusion penetrating his throat, Armie only managed to moan in response.

Which sent Timmy over the edge.

Timmy’s warm fluid spilled down the width of Armie’s throat before he had opportunity to pull away. He swallowed with satisfaction, flaunting a confident smile which Timmy didn’t catch; his head submerged amongst the pillows with heavy breaths. Having not yet licked the remaining prize from his lips, Armie tilted Timmy’s face to his own, pressing their mouths together in a shared entity. Timmy moaned in gratitude and the overwhelming feeling of union between them. A smirk escaped his lips and in disbelief he shook his head, his curls tickling Armie’s forehead.

“You’re fucking amazing.”

“You _taste_ fucking amazing, thought I’d save you a sample.”

Timmy laughed softly against Armie’s lips, his fingers twisting Armie’s hair playfully with contentment.

That was, until a sound, initially unfamiliar given its unexpectedness not invited to their intimacy, caused a jolt to Timmy’s tranquil frame. He opened his eyes, furrowing his brow as he grabbed his phone from the sideboard.

**_Unknown number._ **

“Hello?” He accentuated the second syllable with apprehension, for the only unknown callers Timmy received meant a problem, usually financially. Usually Steve asking where his rent was.

Armie smirked to himself at the timing of situation, and found humour in kissing Timmy’s jawline to distract him.

“Wha-? _Pauline_?” The name was said with familiarity, yet disconcertion overcame his pupils, his mouth trembling. “What are you talking about?”

Armie sat up and helped Timmy do the same, positioning the pillows against the headboard. He looked at his companion tentatively, taking his hand and squeezing it lightly in reassurance.

“Okay, okay,” Timmy murmured, biting his lip. “Will he even _want_ me there?”

Timmy rose from the bed frantically, pulling on his jeans and searching the room like a game of hide-and-seek in effort to find his shirt. Their clothes had been discarded across the house in a fusion of lust and laughter. Armie watched him in confusion, feeling helpless and sensing that their company had reached a sudden conclusion.

“Okay, yep, okay, speak to you soon, okay.”

Timmy hung up, tossing his phone onto the mattress. Armie raised an eyebrow, unsure of how to engage with Timmy who now felt out of reach.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, pushing the sheets off him and grabbing his boxers from the floor. “Who was that?”

“My sister,” Timmy mumbled, adjusting his dishevelled curls to sit behind his ears.

 

“My father’s been taken to hospital.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates guys <3 I've struggled this week for inspiration plot wise, so hopefully this isn't too terrible! Apologies for the cliff-hanger ending ;)  
> I'm wantedyoutoknow on tumblr. :) xx


	8. One of a Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie has a difficult week, having not heard from Timmy and no means of contacting him. Left clueless and desperate at work, a turn of events leaves him very grateful for his Friday afternoon in the office.

 

It had been a long week.

The days played by in their elongated spells of repetition as always, merging into one indistinguishable blur. Friday arrived and Armie was breathing in a vacuum of commitments; running on auto-pilot and a prison of dissociation. It reached mid-day and sat at his desk, he froze, paranoid that he hadn’t showered that morning. He couldn’t remember getting out of bed, so how could he guarantee he’d locked the front door. Facing his computer screen, he pressed against his temples with his forefingers in hope that his headache would subside. He grabbed his glasses, only recently prescribed and a weak prescription to help with eye strain from the hours glued to a screen, and opened up the search engine.

He’d slept with the guy. They’d shared a bed. He _may_ even admit (to himself only, of course) that he had feelings for him.

And yet they hadn’t exchanged numbers.

Talk about not following the instruction manual for whatever this _thing_ was.

How did he even spell it? He knew how it was pronounced, fuck, when it left his god damn lips, Armie felt his skin melt. His protective layer crumbled, from just one word; the hairs on his forearms risen like the shock of an electric current.

 _Timothy._ No? That didn’t look right, too ordinary for a guy with French heritage and _those_ curls. Of course, Armie had to fall for the guy whose name he couldn’t fucking spell. _He really was one of a kind._ Armie rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh.

_Timothy - Glitz Club - New York_

_Timothy - French - Bartender - Gay Club_

**No search results found.**

_Jesus fucking Christ._

* * *

 

 

Armie exhaled forcefully, resting his head on the desk. He’d worked at this practice twelve years and security cameras were never mentioned. It’s not like theft of a medical practice had ever been a cause for concern. Right now, however, he prayed that there weren’t any hidden cameras in his office. They’d think he were having a breakdown at his desk. Armie never brought his personal life to the office. Sure, he’d snap at Sue on the front desk if he hadn’t slept, but his love life specifically was never cause for office gossip.

Love life.

Was this what it was now? What _he_ was now?

“Arms, you have someone on Line 2 for you.”

Nick poked his head around the office door. Armie hadn’t heard him knock, and Nick flashed him a concerned, raised eyebrow but instantly acknowledged Armie wasn’t wanting to share whatever was bothering him. Like their friendship, the two of them kept private matters separate from work. When they were at work, they were colleagues. In the car park, they were brothers. Armie usually told Nick everything, half the time he didn’t say a word. Nick knew from the glazed pupils and a distance that Armie had conjured, like some protective forcefield sheltering him from the real world. Often, Nick was gifted a second key to Armie’s privacy. They’d sit on Armie’s terrace over beers, a spliff and a large serving of unconditional companionship. He always had Nick and he never second-guessed filling him in on the latest mishaps that his life had produced. Well, that was until the guy with the weird-ass name that not even Google could track down turned up and fucked with his head.

“Someone?” Armie muttered, not meeting Nick’s intrusive, questioning stare. _I’m not in the mood right now, man._ Nick shrugged his shoulders with a smug smile before shutting the door with deliberate force to make Armie wince. Armie heard him laugh to himself down the corridor.

Armie tapped the second digit of the old-school desk phone and sighed. He inhaled suddenly in effort to control his breathing, remain professional. Only a couple of hours and he could head home and hibernate for two days.

“Hello, Central Surgery, Doctor Armie Hammer speaking. How can I help you?”

Pause.

“Hey, Doc.” His _fucking_ voice. Slightly slurred with cocky-confidence and dripping with charisma. Armie almost dropped the phone, he felt his hand slip. Armie felt his mouth physically drop, his lip trembled. He swallowed to moisten the dryness of his throat, before soughting words.

“Why hello, stalker. Did you hire a private investigator to track me down?”

Timmy chuckled down the phone. His laugh prickled Armie’s skin like silk. Initially disconcerting in its demeanour, but satisfying in equal weight.

“Not quite,” He could hear him smiling down the phone. _That_ smile that said _come to bed with me_. “More that I typed your name into Google and a Doctor Hammer came up. What a fucking cliche.”

Armie spluttered. “A cliche?”

“Your house is fucking huge and you’d look fucking incredible in a white coat and stethoscope.”

Armie felt his cheeks burning to the extent of over-heating. He reached across to the window and pushed it open. How he reacted, entirely out of his control, was beyond embarrassing at this point.

“Why thank you. Usually I sport a shirt and tie to the office, but if you ever fancied role play, I’m sure I could hunt down the full works from somewhere…”

He heard Timmy gulp through the phone. He mumbled something incoherent and Armie flashed a smug smile to the empty room.

“As for Googling, you had it easy. How the fuck do I track someone down with a name that has multiple spellings?”

Timmy cackled down the phone. A laugh that would usually receive a raised eyebrow at its distasteful pitch, only it made Armie’s stomach churn in what people would describe as _butterflies._ Only that analogy deemed too tame give n the circumstances. It felt like a fucking _beehive_ had nested in his esophagus.

“Geez, don't medics need straight As? Surely spelling should be one of your strong suits.”

“Not when the name in question is fucking French.”

He felt him smirk against the receiver. " _Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?_ ”

Armie felt all the blood rush to his crotch in rapid succession. He nearly misplaced the ability to breathe, let alone verbalise a response.

“... And you say I’m the cliche.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you prefer shorter chapters (meaning quicker updates!) or longer! I'm concerned this is too short? Hopefully you enjoyed, thank you as always for reading! xx


	9. Off Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie and Timmy are reunited after a quiet week apart.

“I figured I’d play it safe.” Armie exclaimed as a greeting once the door opened. An exhale of relief left his mouth, before a wide smile overcame his face. He held up the two pizza boxes in front of his face as some makeshift mask, which Timmy grabbed savagely before pressing his mouth to Armie’s. Their lips intertwined as means of surrendering themselves to one another, as if they couldn’t get close _enough._ Timmy dropped the pizza boxes to the laminate floor carelessly, smiling against Armie’s lips which was mirrored automatically. Armie broke them apart, to which Timmy moaned in frustration, gripping Armie’s waist with both arms.

“I originally settled for pepperoni as you’re the furthest from vegetarian, but then panicked that maybe you don’t like toppings on pizza so I -”

Timmy’s palm pressed harshly over Armie’s mouth as a playful diversion. 

“It’s perfect,” He grinned carelessly without concern of his appearance, of looking too eager or childish; embraced his natural responses, free from thought. His cheeks ached.

“Come in, doc.”

“You’re never going to let that go now, are you?”

Timmy sniggered, flicking the oven on. “It just baffles me that I didn’t _guess_ that. It’s so fucking _obvious_.”

“If you carry on, I’m going to suggest you get a check-up. Make sure you’re not getting too hot and bothered. We don’t want you catching a fever…”

Timmy looked up with a raised eyebrow to his guest, arms folded with a stare that complimented his stature so much that Timmy almost bought it.  “Do I need medical insurance for that?” His lip turned up in a smug smile.

“I think I can let that slide, just this once.”

“How convenient.”

Timmy’s voice, the slick, sultry and sarcastic essence that slid from his tongue ran over every inch of Armie’s body, as if he were held in his grip. Only this grip felt metaphysical and beyond human understanding. Armie had given up over-thinking the whole thing, whatever this thing was and had adjusted to the inevitable. Timothee had him held in tight grasp and he’d sunk too deep to climb out. He didn’t think it were possible and he didn’t want to. Regardless of the potential detriments to his health (he was a doctor for fuck’s sake. He knew this unnamed, deep-rooted feeling, this need for the man in front of him, was unhealthy at its best.)

“So, pizza _then_ fucking, or?” Timmy muttered with a raised eyebrow, the smug smile having found permanent residence on his lips. How he could come out with these things so self-assured, like he’d asked what you’d had for breakfast, left Armie _forgetting_ to _breathe._

“Well, I figured pizza and talking before anything _else_.” Armie managed a reassuring smile, to which Timmy looked clueless, raising his eyebrows hesitantly.

“Huh?”

“Your father, Tim. The last time I saw you, you raced out my door like a marathon runner. You can talk to me, you know.”

Timmy gulped and turned away, both to check on the pizzas, and check _in_ with himself.

_“I know.”_

 

* * *

 

Timmy ate most of the margherita pizza. Armie ate all of the pepperoni pizza and Timmy’s leftovers. They had the ‘pineapple on pizza debate’, to which Timmy considered a waste of breath. _This isn’t a topic for discussion. Fruit on pizza is fucking blasphemy._

Sat facing each other on the hard floor, Armie watched Timmy swallow his last bite before he asked further questions. Only, to his surprise, Timmy dived head-first.

“It was a false alarm. Pauline called me yesterday. I hadn’t heard anything all week.”

“So you were just waiting around? No one thought to update you?”

Timmy rolled his eyes. “This is my family we’re talking about here. I tried to ring Pauline and it went straight to fucking answer phone.”

“Tim, I’m so sorr-”

Timmy wasn’t used to company in his apartment, so he continued to talk without pausing for breath or response. As if it was some kind of treat that he needed to prove his gratitude for. Armie’s very presence sealed the wound that had harvested in Timmy’s chest over recent years.

He kept looking up as he spoke, as if to check he were still there, still listening.

“So, all I know is he’s alive. Alive and doesn’t want to see me. Which I suppose I can live with.”

He grimaced, and stood up from the floor towards the fridge. “I’ve just been paid so can offer more than fucking tap water,” he smirked, rolling his eyes at himself. “Beer?”

Armie looked up with hesitation to assess Timmy’s change in mood and topic, before nodding with a grin.

“So, Pauline keeps in touch? Your Mother?”

Timmy hesitated in his response, turning to the kitchen counter to both grab a bottle opener, and as a pause for thought. He sat back down opposite, now closer in proximity so their knees were touching. Armie looked down at the innocent yet intimacy of the situation, the barriers that had been discarded for Timmy to trust him. His dimples rose into a grateful smile; some involuntary, natural response he doesn’t realise he even initiated.

“Pauline only really calls when she wants something or has something _important_ to tell me. That, or something she’s achieved. My Mom calls weekly really, but never comes over here. I think she’s scared of the place, thinks it’s contaminated,” Timmy chuckled briefly to himself, as if he sought humour in the situation but struggles to find it. He shrugs. “She takes me for coffee occasionally.”

Armie nodded and exhaled in exasperation and disbelief. _They don’t deserve you._

“When did you last see your Dad?” Armie feared he asks too much, expects too much that Timmy isn’t prepared to or able to give. He reached cross from him and squeezed Timmy’s knee before he overthinks the gesture and his spontaneity escapes him.

Timmy hesitated, pulling an elaborate, dramatised puzzled look, sporting a turned lip and furrowed brow. He brought his fingers below his chin sarcastically, as if to stroke an imaginary beard to puzzle over some answer that’s escaped him. Armie rolled his eyes before smirking.

“Two years ago? I visited my parents for some family get-together. I was asked to leave,” he muttered, his gaze now directed behind Armie’s shoulder, to some abstract place he’d boxed off. He remembers it and it’s as if he’s cast backward, stood in his parents’ dining room. His Father glaring at him like he’s physically grotesque. _What the fuck is he doing here?_

“Well, I was _told_ to.” He scoffed, his curls now hanging across his pupils like a mask. It helped to avoid eye-contact.

“Tim, I’m so sorry, I don’t kn-” Armie began, his speech shaken and hesitant.

“No need,” Timmy murmured, squeezing Armie’s hand that had found home on Timmy’s thigh. To reassure Armie were to reassure himself. On behalf of one another, mutual pain. _Two halves of a whole._

Armie met his gaze and _they_ held it, synchronised. Neither of whom looked away. Both fought the urge to move, to say something, to disrupt the silence that is so often considered awkward or worth avoiding. Timmy moved his arm tentatively, suddenly so aware of their contrasting frames for he suddenly looked so skeletal and fragile when so close in proximity to the man in front of him. Armie was _huge._

Timmy’s long fingers traced Armie’s jawline gently. Armie shut his eyes, as if to switch off one of the senses for the sensation of Timmy’s touch to be heightened.

“I missed you,” Timmy murmured, in an almost-whisper. “Is that lame to say?”

Armie smirked to himself, eyes still closed, and moved his head from Timmy’s grasp to kiss his palm. “You goose. Do you know how hard this past week has been? Not being able to contact you? It drove me _insane._ ”

Timmy chuckled, dragging himself closer to Armie’s crossed-legs so their knees touched. He paused to assess the situation, as if he were to cross over foreign territory. Armie watched him bemused, raising his brows. “You alright there?” he muttered, before a light laugh escaped his lips.

“Mm,” Timmy murmured with a smirk. He pressed his palms into the floor to give him leverage, pushing himself upward into Armie’s lap and wrapping his legs around his waist. “It’s a good job I rang the doctor really...”

Armie moaned in satisfaction, nodding briefly. He pulled Timmy closer by his waist so their torsos were touching, aligning his mouth with his own. “I feel we need to get you checked out.”

Timmy smirked, his breath tickling Armie’s lip. “Oh really?”

Timmy attempted breaking the little distance between them, his mouth now an inch from his guest, only Armie crossed his path, pulling him backward so they were lying on the floor, Timmy now straddling him. Timmy gasped, his heart beating so quickly he feared his rib-cage would fracture from its weight. Who initiated _it_ was unnecessary worry at this point, their lips intertwined impulsively. It was easy, mouths integrated as if to surrender to one another. Timmy grinded his hips against Armie’s crotch desperately, to which a gasp escaped his guest’s lips.

“Sorry doc, am I crossing a line here?”

Armie smirked against Timmy’s lips, his fingers tangled in his curls. Without hesitation, he rolled onto his side for Timmy to rest on the floor. The harshness of the wood knocking his spine. He moaned theatrically as if in pain, to which Armie pressed his palm across Timmy’s mouth harshly. Timmy looked up at him wide-eyed, Armie’s weight now on top of him, his arms pinned down at his sides helplessly. Armie’s tongue traced the length of Timmy’s neck patiently, to which Timmy moaned in frustration.

“Lucky for you, I’m off duty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this pays off! As always, thank you x100000 for reading and being so lovely in the comments, they make me so happy. <3 I'm wantedyoutoknow on Tumblr :) xx


	10. I'm Yours, Okay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy is ready for something more. He's lacking purpose, someway or somehow. How does Armie fit? Are their differences really as influential as Timmy assumed?

Not even a ‘good morning’ had been exchanged before Timmy’s mouth had encircled the width of Armie’s cock.

Armie was only-just awake when Timmy travelled down his stomach with his tongue, now resting his head between his thighs. It amazed Armie how such a small mouth, delicate like the rest of his entirety, could contain the length of him with such ease. Timmy kissed tenderly around the head, his palm cupping the solid length against his fingers. When Timmy so much as traced Armie’s cock with his fingertips, lightly teasing him, Armie groaned in response to which Timmy smirked, catching Armie’s gaze with an intense stare.

Holding his gaze, Timmy spat on the head of Armie’s cock and rubbed the lubricant down his shaft with a proud smile. Armie whimpered in disillusion, unable to keep his head up to watch. Instead, he shut his eye, submerging himself in this form of ecstasy. Cupping Armie’s balls, Timmy pinched them lightly, tugging at the delicate flesh playfully with a smirk which left Armie wincing in a new-found combination of pleasureful discomfort. _Trust._ Timmy’s lips, damp with pre-cum, sucked at the head of Armie’s throbbing length, leaving Armie whimpering in desperation.

“Take it all in,” Armie murmured, hissing and flinching in response to Timmy’s tongue teasing the tip of his cock.

“What’s the magic word?” Timmy whispered, licking the tip tentatively by which Armie began thrusting his hips forward in impatience. He knew patience was synonymous with politeness. Knew that perhaps this was crossing a line. That maybe he’d scare the guy off with his lust.

“ _Please_.” Armie whimpered, lips pursed. Mesmerised by the dominance of his recipient, given the delicacy of his frame.

“Good boy.”

Timmy maintained a steady rhythm, with Armie’s hard cock hitting the back of his throat without so much as a wince. _Up-down-up-down-up-_

“Fuu-ck,” Armie murmured practically inaudible amongst his incoherent cries, his head thrown back against the pillows. “Tim, I’m going to c-”

The warm aftermath prized Timmy’s throat with sporadic emission, now saturated by both Armie’s release and Timmy’s pride. Timmy swallowed energetically, nonchalant and illustrious.

_“Good morning.”_

 

* * *

 

Saturday nights only emphasised the extremities of their circumstances. Just how different their lifestyles were. Weekends, for Armie, meant sofa-surfing and take-out food. For Timmy, it meant throwing bottles around with an aimless clarity that was unknown to many. A carelessness you could trust. He caught them everytime and it not only wowed his customers but himself. He could craft cocktails better than all of his colleagues combined and he was fucking proud of it. Usually, Timmy didn’t mind working the weekend. It ensured he spent time with people rather than sitting alone in his apartment smoking too much pot, drinking a whole crate of beers to himself and passing out on the kitchen floor.

Only prior to his shift, standing amidst house music and sweaty hook-ups seemed like the worst situation imaginable. Now the thought of entering the bar, the place that had for so long converted into a second home, epitomised pre-show nerves on opening night. You know the location like the palm of your hand, only the anticipation and that final step on to the stage feels like a leap of faith. Timmy missed that feeling, _craved_ it like hydration after a morning run. Performing, being someone else, wearing a mask like a second skin. Being praised, admired, talented. Now, he was a class bartender and the only performance he’d mastered was to his audience of customers, seduced by his cocky charm and winning smile. Only tonight, he had the worst stage fright possible.

“I don’t want to go to work,” Timmy moaned, pacing the apartment in a rhythmical formation, back-forth.

Armie looked up at him with amusement, the man in front of him resembling the nature of a frustrated child. He dropped the smirk when acknowledging Timmy’s anxiety, which clouded him like a layer of opaque, black fog.

“Have you considered looking for something else?”

Initially, Timmy raised his brow with defensive intent. He was so familiar with these types of questions, that sounded so intrusive and judgemental, as if he wasn’t doing enough for himself. Well, he knew that much was true. He was a college drop-out, working part-time to survive and pulling pints was hardly a career. He gulped, his vision now directed to the floorboards.

“There was a position advertised,” he murmured, sensing Armie’s gaze from his side-view. “Some new cocktail place opening that looks up-market, in the posh side of the city. Not worth looking though, it’s  a supervisor position so I’m nowhere near qualified.”

Armie stood up off the bed, his hands holding Timmy’s shoulders in a tight-knit grasp. He met his gaze with an intense stare, one Timmy couldn’t avoid even if he tried to. The depth of his pupils dragged Timmy by some artificial leash, for as much as he tried to detach, to pull away from Armie’s grasp, it felt as if it were beyond human capability.

“You don’t know that. I’ve seen you behind that bar and you come to life. I can’t describe it. You’re really good at what you do, T.”

Timmy rolled his eyes dramatically with a scoff of disbelief.

‘I’m good at pulling pints? That’s my talent? Working in a gay bar a few nights a week? _Thanks_ , dude.”

Armie tried not to wince at the nonchalance of Timmy’s tone, as if he’d physically shrugged off his affection. _Dude._ Armie swallowed intently to fracture the lump in his throat, as if doing so would desensitise himself. A technique he’d used since childhood that if he swallowed _enough_ , hydrated the rawness of his throat, he’d rescue his control and float above the water. _Wouldn’t live up to the weak faggot his father saw him as._

“I didn’t mean that. You know what I meant.” Armie squeezed Timmy’s shoulders before his hands rested on either side of Timmy’s face, pulling his lips in line with his own.

“Now shush,” Armie murmured, before Timmy’s tongue traced his lower lip playfully. Armie smirked at the innocence of the gesture, the playful yet intimate nature that still surprised Armie. How Timmy could meander between such tentativeness, to having him surrender at his touch with no words necessary. One extreme or the other. Armie either wanted to envelop Timmy in a protective shelter as if even New York’s air could harm him, or pin him against the wall in a lustful control, having him surrender to his every command.

“You won me over with your bartender skills,” Armie muttered against Timmy’s lips, now damp and pigmented from his contact as if he’d branded him as his very own. “So if you dare fault that…” Armie paused, his hand sweeping down Timmy’s side in a frantic urgency before his palm rested against his inner thigh. Timmy whimpered in response, nodding urgently as if to prove he was agreeing. Some kind of apology, for doubting his job would be faulting the coincidence of their meeting. With his index finger, Armie lightly traced the outline of Timmy’s crotch which hardened beneath the denim of his jeans.

“I, I-” Timmy moaned before sighing in exasperation. “I need to g-et to wo-rk.” He managed, his diction shaken in inconsistent, panting breaths.

Armie nodded with a smirk. He squeezed Timmy’s crotch a final time before they parted. Timmy groaned theatrically.

“Go get ‘em, kiddo.”

 

* * *

 

**2 Weeks Later**

 

“Is this a _gay_ cocktail bar?”

Armie stood in the cramped apartment kitchen which would otherwise be uncomfortable in size, yet given his company it only felt intimate. Opposite him Timmy who downed the remaining sips of his morning coffee in a large gulp. He’d hardly slept. Armie, arms crossed with an inquisitive, searching glance, pursed his lips in anticipation. _Well?_

“I’m not sure they exist.” Timmy smirked, rolling his eyes. Armie had been quizzing him for the past twenty-four hours and not just in the helpful, pre-interview guide approach. _Arms, is this a quiz show?_

“And why not?”

“Why do you ask?” Timmy raised his brow as he peered over the coffee mug, humouring the man across from him whose responses were coming in more rapidly with every move of the lip.

Armie sighed in an irritated manner, struggling to conform to the serious tone with every glance at Timmy. _He looked fucking hot._ He wore Armie’s shirt and tie better than he did and Armie wasn’t sure if he should be jealous or turned on. He settled for the two combined. Timmy wore a suit jacket over the top with matching trousers, the only suit he owned and had only ever sported once to a family funeral. The trouser leg sat above his ankle which Armie insisted were fine . _They’ll be looki_ _ng at your pretty face, not the length of your pants._

“Checking if this job will require you flirting with the customers…”

Timmy smirked, his lips resting on the porcelain china. His eyes rested on Armie’s flirtatiously. Whenever he blinked his lashes left a shadow against his cheekbones, all the more prominent from the early-morning sun which greeted them through the blinds.

“You mean like I did with you?” Timmy attempted a casualness to his question, only his grin enveloped his face almost intrusively. He couldn’t disguise this level of completeness. This wholeness he felt in the depth of his stomach from Armie’s _existence_ , let alone his support in the process. He needed someone to recognise his unhappiness, needed someone else to encourage him to do more. _That he deserved more._ Needed taking care of _sometimes._

He settled his mug beside the sink, a habit that often frustrated Armie for he’d leave washing-up for days at a time. Only before Armie had chance to comment, even if it were only teasing, Timmy grabbed him by the waist. Although pulling Armie’s weight forward emphasised their differing statures, Timmy stood below Armie in a deep embrace, effortlessly, like some asymmetrical halves to a whole unit. His delicate arms hung around Armie’s back in a tight grip, mimicking that of a koala. Some new nickname that had developed in recent weeks.

_“I’m yours, okay?”_

Armie couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. Any scream or exclamation of delight, of disbelief didn’t meet his lips. Instead, he looked down at Timmy with a ferocious grin, squeezing his waist fiercely. 

“I’ve got to get going. Being late for a position I’m not even _qualified_ for won’t exactly convince them otherwise,” Timmy smirked, grabbing his keys from the sideboard.

Timmy turned toward the door, before being pulled backward by the arm. Armie smirked with a shake of the head, tilting his head forward slightly toward Timmy’s neckline. Timmy’s brow furrowed, registering confusion. Armie grinned at him, proudly, as he re-adjusted his tie for him. The simplicity yet intimacy of the gesture sent a rush to Timmy’s stomach. He twisted his key into the lock.

“Oh, wait, I almost forgot.”

Armie’s tone sounded hesitant. A slip of paper, torn at the edges. A scribble, initially illegible, tattooed across it.

_Ten digits._

“Call me when you’re done. We can grab a coffee or something.”

Timmy looked down at the token now of his possession. The gesture, so formal and meaningful. Some sign of commitment that was often a given or overlooked. His cheeks flushed crimson, his mouth set in a child-like grin.

“So, are we like, _dating_ now?” he smirked with a simultaneous wink. 

 

_“I sure fucking hope so.”_

 

* * *

 

  
_I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar,_  
_that much is true._  
_But even then I knew I'd find a much better place,_  
_~~either~~ **with** ~~or without~~ you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am wantedyoutoknow on Tumblr! I have a playlist for this fic here (10 songs/a song per chapter, if this were to be a film, haha! 'cause I am *that* lame...) :o) xx  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/paramoregothicchick/playlist/5pOp3Bazz4HKpdDjJ6FZlg?si=3vtZMGG0Te2LdTISjG-E8w


	11. Part 2: Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decided to combine what was the sequel fic of this with the original so it's all in one place! 
> 
> \---
> 
> Armie Hammer is a General Practitioner at a Medical Practice in up-town New York. As much as his job is rewarding, he finds himself living a double-life, for being 'out' at work isn't an option. Once he takes off his suit and tie, his relationship with bartender Timothee is progressing smoothly. But obstacles still stand in the way of living openly and comfortably in a partnership accepted outside their apartment door. With both their families' acceptance being what seems like a fantasy, will their pasts and differing social circles catch up with them and ruin any chances of a future together?

It was 5:36pm, Friday and Armie had been ready for the weekend since Wednesday. This dreading work thing was unfamiliar to Doctor Hammer. He rarely complained about work, for the longer he stayed at the office, the more he socialised and actually spent time with people. In this case, spending time with people, particularly his regular patient Deirdre, was the last thing he would’ve wanted to do with his Friday evening. When his Friday evening was supposed to have started six minutes ago.

“I don’t know what it is Doc, my head just hurts all the time,” She mumbled, twirling the loose thread of her skirt around her thin fingers. The seventy-two year old was sweet to most, Armie thought so the first few times he’d met the woman. Only, she’d now become a weekly patient. A weekly patient who often used the words ‘Mrs Hammer’ when snooping into his private life and coincidentally forgot, time again, Armie and _wife_ were foreign entities.

Deirdre’s purse and scarf had made a home, as always, across Armie’s desk as if the office was a town hall coffee meeting location. Armie considered himself a patient person, particularly with his  _patients_ , but the woman was testing his tolerance and he gritted his teeth as his eyes lingered over the computer screen in front of him. The clock turned over to 17:37. Armie’s eyes turned back to Deirdre with gritted teeth. He exhaled inaudibly, forcing a smile, downing the remainders of his coffee with a harsh gulp.

“All I can suggest we do from this point, Mrs Allen, is keep an eye on it,” Armie smiled with theatrical sympathy, tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk without even registering doing so. He stopped immediately when he recognised his impatience could be detectable. “Perhaps less… frequent appointments would be more worthwhile. So we can monitor your symptoms over time?”

He knew Deirdre _enjoyed_ her doctors’ appointments, for Doctor Hammer was rather charming. Usually the elderly patients were his favourite, easy to talk to and to-the-point. At least they used to be.

The only person Armie was out to at work was Nick. They met in college and clicked instantly. Nick was the first person Armie told and the best response he’d ever received. _Kind of funny that the reactions that stick in your mind are the ‘I am ashamed to call you my son’, followed by a slam of the car door._

 “Do you have much planned for the weekend then, Doctor?” The woman had finally risen from her seat and started buttoning up her coat. This woman was old enough to be his grandmother and he could’ve sworn she was fluttering her eyelashes at him.

Armie shrugged, grabbing his briefcase and keys. He’d have to go to the bathroom before exiting the building, just to avoid further small-talk with Deirdre on the way out. That, and her knowing which car was his was giving him anxiety.

“No plans for Friday night with Mrs Hammer?” She smiled sweetly up at him from across the desk. _It’s as if she knows, or maybe she is completely clueless. How many times do I have to say I’m not marri-_

“Deirdre, I’m not marri-”

“You say that, dear, but there must be a special someone in your life.” She smiled broadly, as if in reassurance.

Armie froze as if theatrically, his hand hovering over the desk like he’d forgotten what he was aiming for. The word special. _Spécial._ He smirked to himself. How the word itself remained the same, only affected

by pronunciation.  How another word, _a name_ , that rolled off his tongue like liquid language, followed that same rule. How that very name sounded when muffled by breathlessness and panting, their names interwoven as something familiar but foreign. _Armie. Tim._

“Right, dear, I best be off,” Deirdre headed towards the office door, but was interrupted.

Armie gulped in hesitation before the smile found home between dimples.

“The someone special,” he murmured, zipping his briefcase shut. He looked up, a confident smile overtaking his former hesitation. “You were right there.”

Deirdre smiled to herself and shut the door behind her. Armie did the same a minute later, but not before sending a quick message to his most recent contact. The icon, a mop of glossy curls and hand covering his face in embarrassment. A grin shadowing his facial features as he lay back amongst the pillows of their bed.

_“I’ll be home in 10. I want you on your knees, waiting for me. - A’_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr - wantedyoutoknow :)


	12. You Tell Me

Timmy had been promoted, at least theoretically speaking. No pay rise in sight or glistening badge glued to his shirt, but now he’d learnt how to make two types of cocktail. The only difference between the two of them being the juice you topped them up with.

“How can chucking a load of spirits into a shaker be so fucking complicated?” he muttered, still in his work attire of a crisp white shirt (the only one he owned that meant wear-wash-wear-wash)  and black skin-tight jeans. He’d become accustomed to talking to himself. Mumbling (usually moaning) when alone in the apartment. Often, he’d time this  _ so  _ well that Armie walked in to Timmy doing the dishes whilst in conversation with himself.

“You tell me, babe,” Armie’s voice made Timmy’s body jolt and the plate hit the water with force, splashing the front of his shirt. He exhaled with stuttered laughter, a sigh of relief and excitement.

“You made me jump,” Timmy laughed, turning round to face him. Briefcase in hand, white shirt and blazer jacket, tight-fitting trousers that Timmy forever complimented for cupping his ass perfectly. Stubble already re-emerging from his morning grooming, that Timmy squirmed when it scratched his face after a day’s re-growth. Every inch of his physicality had become something Timmy resonated with. The hairs that poked out intrusively meeting  the collar of his shirt, the chest that Timmy slept on. Those hands that cupped the briefcase handle firmly; that same grasp that held Timmy’s neck in a chokehold, when Armie had him pressed into the mattress.

“I’m glad.” Armie muttered smugly, feeling Timmy’s watchful gaze on his every routinely move. Placing the briefcase on the island central to the kitchen. Next he’d loosen the tie that cupped his throat, and head towards the fridge. Timmy could predict Armie’s every step, _ singular  _ motions that made up their  _ shared  _ daily routine.

Only he didn’t.

In seconds, Armie was inches from Timmy’s face, his hands cupping Timmy’s slender wrists which epitomised the level of their differing proportions. He forcefully took each hand and held them behind Timmy on the kitchen counter, leaving his body completely to Armie’s command. _ Sacrifice.  _ Timmy could feel the hairs of his forearms stand up abruptly as if ignited by some electric current. Armie’s breath lapped as Timmy’s throat, so slowly that Timmy gritted his teeth with impatience. Armie felt so close, yet so far. Something he wasn't entitled to.

“Did you do as I asked?” Armie murmured playfully, his tie fell from his neck and tickled their feet as it reached the wooden floor. Timmy’s foot jared as the silk tickled his skin, the sole of his foot squished Armie’s toes as if him dropping his tie had been something sensual and not a careless throw. Timmy grabbed Armie by the neck, pulling him close so their mouths were just an inch apart.

“Nuh-uh,” Armie shook his head, eyebrows raised. “Did I say you were in charge?”

Timmy pursed his lips before shaking his head.

“Let me see you.”

Timmy unhooked his trouser button hurriedly, his breath hitched, his hands shaken. He dropped the trousers to their feet tangled with Armie’s tie, and stood in his boxers, the cotton cupping the shape of his inevitable erection. Armie smirked to himself as his fingers traced the material that shielded Timmy, him feeling caught out like a teenager trying to disguise his arousal in a public setting.

“I think these need to come off too,” Armie growled, his lips lingering against the column of Timmy’s throat. His veins, his Adam’s apple, prominent and erect beneath their porcelain casing.

Armie’s fingers, cupping Timmy’s crotch, moved to the waistband whereby he hooked his thumbs beneath the grey cotton, in line with Timmy’s prominent hip bones. Timmy gasped audibly and released a low chuckle of embarrassment at his response. How Armie could still leave him desperate and struggling for coherency. How Armie’s touch could leave every man that had touched him previously as some make-belief contender for his desire. No one else came close and admitting as much was an unnerving mix of something terrifying and exhilarating. It was like Timmy had lost the ability to talk. Instead, he let Armie control his every action. Armie spoke for him, Armie’s hands were his own, Armie’s lips immersed with his so it were difficult to detect whose mouth was whose. One unit.

Shirt still hugging his frame and naked from the waist down, Armie spun Timmy round and pinned him over the kitchen counter, cupping his wrists in the makeshift handcuffs of his palms.  Timmy hadn’t heard Armie un-do his suit trousers, hadn’t heard the condom wrapper or the drawer open (they kept lube in the kitchen drawer just in case.) Timmy opened his mouth to gasp but no sound escaped his lips. His jaw clenched in anticipation, mouth stretched, eyes closed, waiting. Armie’s released the grip around Timmy’s hands slightly, his free hand cupping his cock to tease Timmy’s entrance. Timmy winced, not out of pain but impatience.

“Fuck me,” Timmy whimpered helplessly with gritted teeth, still unable to move his hands to claim Armie’s cock. Instead, he rested his torso against the countertop, his legs shaking and the air from the open window tickling his spine. “ _ Please  _ .”

Armie licked the nape of Timmy’s neck, down his spine and hovered against his lower-back.

“Spread your legs for me.” Armie growled, releasing Timmy’s hands from his grasp as he gripped Timmy’s hips, his nails bruising his alabaster skin. When Armie finally entered him, Timmy lasted only a couple of minutes before the predictable ‘I’m going to come’ was released from his lips, a harsh crimson from biting them. Armie’s hard thrusts rocked Timmy’s body forward into the kitchen unit, the pain of his prominent hip-bones hitting the wooden surface intensifying the depth of Armie’s cock inside him. Timmy finished in a euphoric outcry, covering the kitchen counter in ungoverned, white fluid. Armie followed shortly after, biting Timmy’s shoulder harshly to cause indents to the skin and a yelp from Timmy’s lips.

“You’re cleaning that up,” Armie chuckled, kissing Timmy’s skin and bringing goosebumps to the surface, the spot that seconds before he’d marked with teeth and ravenous lust.

That relief, a shared alleviation of bodies combined.

Now merely sounds in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm wantedyoutoknow on Tumblr :)


	13. Mix-Tape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie listens to his weekly mix-tape as gifted by Timmy, and Timmy meets with his Mother.

Every week, Timmy made Armie a playlist to start his Monday morning with. The drive to work had altered from a medical podcast or the news update, to artists that Armie wouldn’t _exactly_ pick for himself. Often, he’d grit his teeth as Timmy quizzed him on that week’s choices, for he’d never care to admit that he’d skipped a couple of tracks. They bonded over the classic RnB that moved through the bar that Timmy once worked in, and Armie could appreciate The Weeknd, for that made up the entirety of Timmy’s ‘sex playlist.’ Having ‘music to set the scene’ was a new prospect for Armie, not that he complained at the idea for Timmy between his legs as heavy bass moved through him only enhanced the experience…

_‘But we ain't really gonna to sleep at all,_

_you ain't gonna catch me with them sneak pictures, sneak pictures.’_

“So, what did you make of this week's’ _Timmy Tunes_?” Timmy sang down the office headset, elongating  ‘tunes’ with a quality he aimed to resemble an enthusiastic radio DJ, as Armie checked his calendar for that morning. Thankfully, no appointments had been made for Deirdre for that week (as of yet.)

“Do you want my honest opinion, or what you’d want to hear?” Armie chuckled, taking a large gulp of coffee, his third that morning. He was conscious of using his personal phone at work, whilst trying to reassure himself that he was practically the boss of the practice, so it’s not like anyone could complain. Nick often knocked the office door to find Armie spun round in his chair away from the desk, facing the window, laughing to himself. Immediately Nick knew who was on the end of the phone, knew _that_ only one particular person could make Armie crack up like that. He rolled his eyes, smiling to himself, and left whatever he needed from his best friend and colleague for another time.

“Well, if you’re here to insult Kanye, I’d rather you left it,” Timmy muttered with a sassy tone, to imply this was a sensitive topic.

Armie smirked to himself. “Understood.”

 

* * *

 

 

Timmy hadn't seen his Mother in weeks. He remembered the date exactly because that same day Armie had achieved his onus at work, all the more reason for Timmy to feel even more incapable. Armie reassured him this wasn’t the case, to stop being silly, reminded Timmy that he started a new job and it was going well. That same evening, his Mother met him for a burger and the same conversation, one his Mother prayed wouldn’t come back up, sparked like a right light obstructing her vision. _‘Does Dad ask after me?’_

Today, however, Timmy promised himself he wouldn’t mention his Father. For doing so only put his Mother in a difficult situation. He smiled to himself, with gratitude, at Armie’s words that morning. _‘Everything improves with time.’_

Timmy sat in the diner, the same diner Armie and him had first gone for food together all those months before. Nothing had changed, it still stank of grease, but that particular odour still had the ability to make Timmy’s stomach gurgle.  Only this time, he wasn’t holding the company of someone he’d shared a bed with, but the woman who nursed him, held him in her arms as he wept over a Math test. The very same woman who later stood at the side of her husband when Timothee admitted the name of the gender who had supposedly corrupted him. _‘Who is the kid responsible for all this? Making you think you’re a fag-’_

“Hello, darling.”

Timmy’s Mother walked across the sticky diner floor like royalty stepping foot in a public bathroom. Timmy knew customers’ heads would turn. Her heels marked the tiled floor with a sound guaranteed to induce goosebumps. Timmy looked up at the woman walking towards him, recognising the dark curls that faced him in the mirror every morning, hers more defined and styled. Messy, but with purpose. An extra wrinkle had made home in her forehead and she wore a different shade of lipstick to last time he’d seen her. She took the seat across from him in the booth, where Armie had sat months before.

“Hi, Mom,” Timmy murmured, with a genuine smile. She took his hands in hers across the table. Her nails, immaculate as if she’d been at the salon minutes before (which wouldn’t surprise Timmy.) She squeezed Timmy’s wrist, her palm fitting round it protectively.

“How have you been?”

Timmy told her about the new job, the landlord he can’t stand. Pauline’s latest project. Timmy hated comparing himself to his sister but the act was inevitable. His Mother spoke about her daughter like she were her favourite Christmas gift. Some things didn’t require words and Timmy knew his mother saw him as the failed child.

“Have you not considered going back to school?” his Mother asked, sipping her Americano and wincing at the bitterness of cheap coffee.

Timmy restrained the laughter that was brimming beneath the surface. He looked at his mother wide-eyed and took another slurp of his milkshake. “Like I can afford that, Mom.”

“Well, had you kept your head down when you _were_ in school…” she began.

Timmy choked on his drink, nearly knocking the glass over. He swallowed, trying to hold back the tears that he sensed were building, alongside his frustration.

“I don’t think that was the cause of my situation, Mom.” He repeated _Mom_ as if to reiterate her role, their relationship, her betrayal.

“Right.” She mutters, as if the cue to change subject had been decided. She began tapping her foot against the table leg as if impatient, waiting for something. Waiting until it were acceptable to say her goodbyes.

Timmy’s throat felt like sandpaper, he picked at the rough skin around his nails, tapped his foot just as she did.

“Anyway, darling, I best be off,” she began, grabbing her bag mid-sentence and putting a ten dollar bill on the table. “It would be nice for _you_ to buy _me_ dinner sometime.”

“You know I can’t afford a weekly food shop…” Timmy muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Well,” his Mother sighed, pulling on her coat. “Your Father misses you.” she said it like she had to. Like she were reading a book aloud and it was her voice but someone else’s words.

“No he doesn’t.”

His Mother gulped, dropping her head. “Timothee, don’t start.”

Timmy rose from the seat, drooping his denim jacket around his shoulders. He shrugged, dismissing the situation as if he could erase what had just occurred just by regretting it.

Timmy hesitated, looking toward the window.

“I’ve… met someone.” He muttered, as if his voice didn’t belong to him. Ringing in his ears, the colour of the room being rubbed out like the work of a child’s eraser. His chest tightening like someone squeezing his lungs.

His Mother looked up at him, raising her eyebrows, lips pursed. “What?”

“I’ve met someone,” he said it now with steady diction and confidence in his declaration. He turned to his Mother with a forced smile. “His name is Armie.”

“Right,” His Mother’s face lost its colour as if her son’s palm had greeted her cheek with rapid motion. She scoffed, shaking her head. “I really hoped you’d outgrown it.”

“Outgrown what?” Timmy laughed in disbelief.

“How are you to have a good life Timothee, when you’re living that way?” She looked at him with the same face as the Mother of a criminal.

Timmy scoffed, shaking his head, as if they were mirroring each other’s mannerisms.

“He’s a doctor, actually, if it’s any of your concern.”

His Mother glared at him before a laugh escaped her lips. Laughing at him, not with him.

“And you’re working as a bartender. World’s apart.”

Timmy winced as if her words physically stung. He turned without a second thought, heading toward the exit without so much as a kiss goodbye. before opening the door he looked back once more. His final words before the curtain dropped and the crowd gave their applause.

“We’re very happy _actually._ We share an apartment. A roof over my head and unconditional love. Which is more than can be said for what you’ve ever given me.”

He slammed the diner’s door with enough force to turn heads, and headed towards the subway.

Out of the corner of Timmy’s eye, a poster screamed for his attention. He looked across to a notice board outside the subway station. Large capital letters written by hand in almost illegible script with Sharpie pen:

 **OPEN AUDITIONS** **FOR NEW DRAMA GROUP. NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY. GIVE US A CALL.**

Timmy inhaled forcefully to steady his breathing, forced a smile and headed towards the platform. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm wantedyoutoknow on Tumblr :)
> 
> The song Armie listens to is 'Often' by the Weeknd. (It reminds me of First Year of Uni, haha!)


	14. Belonging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie reflects on the heteronormative world he still lives in and Timmy attends the theatre group.

  
Armie’s eyes caught sight of the couple out the window. Man and woman. Hands clutching one another in an embrace that signalled commitment and not fear. Their eyes never looked up with the anticipation of another’s glare. Their lips met without the slightest hesitation. No one looked round at them, no one paid any attention to their relations but Armie. The voyeur, sat in the coffee shop, observant. His companion being an Americano.

Timmy often worked Saturdays, leaving Armie to himself for the latter half of the day. This left Armie to his own devices, and like the rest of his week, he thrived off routine. Go for a run, read some papers, walk Timmy to the subway.

It’s not that he wished he was straight. He couldn’t think of anything worse than sharing a bed with a woman. Couldn’t think of anything worse than sharing a bed with anyone other than Timmy.

In the months they’d been seeing each other, Timmy had become a part of Armie. Not that he’d admitted that to him, of course. He never expected that could ever happen with someone. From being in medical school, where relationships were completely off the radar (there was no time for that), to coming out, to 40 hours a week. He thought the occasional hook-up would be all that he’d manage. Both practically and emotionally.

But somehow, Timmy slotted into all the empty crevices he hadn’t realised were there before. The empty pillow beside him, the company he never realised he craved when cooking, someone to say goodnight to. Oh, and sharing a shower. He had never realised showering required company until now. He wasn’t sure if it was having someone else there at a time you’re otherwise spent contemplating life, or having a naked Timmy next to him, that made it so worthwhile. He got through a lot more shower gel nowadays.

 

* * *

 

Timmy hadn’t mentioned the theatre group to Armie. At least not yet.

It wasn’t a deliberate decision. Well, it was kind of. But it had the best intentions.

He wanted something that was his thing and only his. Not something others would comment on. Something he could go to, alone, and no one would know who he was.

Timmy had managed to get his shift covered. As far as Armie knew, he was at work, as usual.

The theatre group was held in the basement of a community centre. It wasn’t well signposted and had Timmy not have spotted a couple of people heading to the side of the building, he’d have turned back and headed home. Which would’ve meant telling Armie they didn’t need him at work. Another lie to the pile of deceit that kept on building. If Timmy over-thought it, his stomach wrenched like a swarm of bees making home in his gut. He swallowed forcefully in effort to hydrate the tight, dryness of his throat.

He walked, deliberately slower than usual with less pressure on the heels of his Chelsea boots, down the steps descending to the large room. A few old posters, advertising charity galas and a coffee morning with the start date of September 2006, were peeling from the walls. He hesitated in the corner of the room, his eyes receiving its contents, his heart now absent from his chest. Beating so fast he was struggling to keep up with it. Detached. Maybe he’d left it at home, in the care of the man he shared a bed with. The man who thought he was at work. Stupid.

The room was practically empty other than a small stage, used only for school nativities, and a piano which looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. Timmy’s fingertips pulsed with the urge to touch. To feel the smooth, cold keys against his skin. He stared at the piano with an intense longing; gut-wrenching and suffocating. _Childhood._ Until a voice interrupted the nostalgia that made his chest tighten.

“Hello, hello! A newbie!” The guy was shorter than Timmy (most people were, but Timmy was still surprised how often towering over people was a _thing_. How people didn’t ‘catch up with him’ like he were told they would at school. The man was middle-aged, minimal hair, glasses and a flannel shirt. His voice was expressive, though not in a threatening way. Warm.

Timmy shook the guy’s hand, the man’s grasp firmer than Timmy’s. Timmy explained he saw the poster advertising the theatre group and thought he’d pop by. Timmy didn’t realise he was on the verge of whispering until afterwards. Perhaps the large room was making him paranoid that his voice would echo. Perhaps he wasn’t used to saying the word ‘theatre’ aloud since he walked away from it years before.

“Right, gang, everyone grab a chair! Join the circle and we’ll go round and do our introductions,” The guy, who introduced himself as Steve, was beaming like a light bulb, his smile encompassed over half of his face. All smile and glasses. 

Timmy pulled up a chair, which was plastic and too small for his large frame. He perched on the edge of it, awkwardly, his hands in his lap, eyes on the wooden floor.

 

“Well, I’m Lexy,” A blonde woman waved enthusiastically, _theatrically_ even, and her hair was bleached, straw-like and immaculate. The circle echoed a _‘Hi Lexy’_ as if it was they were doing an AA meeting improv. Timmy winced at the foreignness of the situation.

“Experience wise, I’ve done a few commercials. I played Juliet in the Shakespeare showcase last year. You might recognise me from Grey’s Anatomy, I played a girl they pulled out the water.”

_Timmy thought she was joking and then when no one laughed, he realised she wasn’t. He didn’t recognise her at all. He smiled smugly to himself._

The introductions continued around the circle. Steve said he’d only ever directed local productions, but had been in the theatre industry for twenty years. A guy, James, was nineteen and on Christmas break from college. He caught the eye of a blonde haired giant, Louis, whose hands were running through his hair the whole time he spoke. He’d dropped out of college and wanted to get back into acting. It felt like Timmy were looking at his reflection. Timmy smiled at him shly.

“And last but not least,” Steve smiled at Timmy in encouragement. Timmy’s throat felt like someone’s hands had him in a chokehold. He swallowed but the lump didn’t budge. He coughed instead, and managed to draw even more attention to himself. For fuck’s sake.

“Hi, um, I’m Timmy,” he mumbled, licking his lips as he did so. “I did a load of theatre in school and it was, um, still is my thing. But I couldn’t afford college so I gave it up.”

His words merged together in some incoherent collage. His pupils made contact with the floorboards again, as if it were some familiar face.

He wasn’t used to introducing himself as anything other than a name and ‘bartender.’ He wasn’t used to being known as anything other than the gay kid. Or Pauline’s brother who didn’t go to college. Or the guy that fucked around.

For the first time, in a long time, he didn’t feel ashamed of meeting new faces. Because these new faces, new places, didn’t feel all that _new._

His heart swelled in some newfound comfort. Belonging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your patience, guys! So sorry for slow updates - work has been taking over my life recently.  
> I'm wantedyoutoknow on Tumblr.  
> Thank you so much for all the kudos, it means the world. xx


	15. Voice Without Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy comes back to a sleeping Armie and wakes him up the best way he knows how.  
> A confession is finally revealed...

Armie was in bed by the time Timmy had gotten home. His head rested against his arm, as if a pillow wasn’t needed. His legs raised against his chest in a fetal position, his mouth open slightly. Timmy smiled to himself, stood in the entrance way like a burglar. _Well, that was, if burglars had a thing for 6’5” men who look adorable when they’re sleeping._

Armie stirred, to which Timmy winced, gritting his teeth at his hopeless attempt at tip-toeing.

“Fuck, babe, I’m so sorry, I was going to meet you,” Armie murmured into the pillow, one eye slightly open, as he began to rub his eyes. “How was work?”

Timmy gulped, forgetting for a second of his cover-up story. Aware of the seconds that were passing before he finally responded. It was a relief that Armie was mid-slumber.

“Don’t be silly, it’s fine,” he walked over to the bed, his long fingers twirling Armie’s hair between them. “It was okay, long. Good to be home.” He titled Armie’s head up by his chin, placing his lips on his. He kissed him hard, almost like an apology. He felt guilty, which felt like a backwards feeling, for Armie knew nothing of his evening’s plans and assumed he’d worked a nine hour shift behind the bar.

Armie smiled between their lips, intertwined like one being, Timmy’s teeth lightly tracing against Armie’s lower lip in a teasing manner. Armie knows as much, as he moans sleepily, half-heartedly, hitching himself upward onto his elbows both to stay awake and so Timmy isn’t leaning over him as much. A joint effort.

Clumsily, for some over-considered, rehearsed approach isn’t needed between them anymore, he yanks Timmy’s black t-shirt over his head, clawing at his back with his fingers. His lips began imprinting the alabaster column of his neck, hard enough for a gasp to escape Timmy’s lips, not hard enough to leave a mark on his porcelain skin.

Timmy gritted his teeth, letting out a half-laugh at the affect Armie still had on him, how his limbs felt detached from his own power, controlled by the man in front of him like some puppet-master. The only light to aid their vision, bleary-eyed or closed when their lips touched, was the street-lamps’ glow through the blind.

Timmy pulled at Armie’s shirt in the twilight glow, his teeth gnawing at the collar and his hands struggling with the buttons as if he were blind-folded. Armie let out a chuckle, before taking over and letting his checkered shirt, the one Timmy had said only belonged in the South, hit the floor.

“I want to ride you,” Timmy muttered against Armie’s lips, their bare chests touching and hands almost swapped over for each other’s. For they’re each other, one being, intertwined where ownership and self, the individual, have been forgotten. Fumbling in the darkness to trace every cell, every inch of each other. Armie growls against Timmy’s mouth, pulling his frame, half the size of his own, on top of him. He’s hard beneath Timmy’s weight, can feel his groin pushing beneath Timmy’s own, as if it didn't belong to him. The effect Timmy had on him made him feel like a teenage boy, grinding against anything he could. Self-control had become a fairytale.

Armie grabbed the lube from the bedside drawer, regularly stocked up thanks to Amazon Prime. _Not so convenient when he’s at work and his Amazon suggestions are different brands of lubricant and cock-rings. Incognito worked wonders._

He found Timmy needed less lube as the months went by, as if his body had adjusted, become accustomed to Armie’s size. Like he belonged there, fitting together as one person.

A gasp escaped Timmy’s lips as Armie’s fingers began opening him up, pushing in and out in some circular motion that left Timmy’s legs shaking. He felt his body wobble above Armie, and balanced himself by resting his head on Armie’s neck, his arms either side of Armie’s torso; lying down with raised hips.

“Mm,” Timmy murmured, stroking Armie’s cock slowly in effort to tease him, but not so much as to distract him from the consistency of his action. Armie licked Timmy’s earlobes, down his neck where his veins were prominent, and kissed across his Adam’s apple; the protrusion of his neck that Armie felt move against his mouth as a breathless moan escaped Timmy’s lips. “Want to ride you.” Timmy moaned with stuttered diction, higher pitch almost begging and defenceless.

Armie replaced his fingers with the tip of his cock, moving it back and forth against Timmy’s entrance slowly with a smug smile that Timmy could just about detect in the darkness.

Timmy replaced Armie’s hand with his own, as if he were alone with only his toy collection to satisfy himself. Taking Armie’s cock in his hand, he slowly pushed the head into his entrance to which Armie whimpered in response.

“Tell me how good it feels,” Armie muttered harshly, thrusting upward, his teeth embedded in Timmy’s collarbone.

“So fucking good, so big,” Timmy panted, lifting himself up and down against Armie, working in synchronicity. “Am I nice and tight for you, baby?”

Armie had never participated in dirty talk before Timmy. He’d always felt ridiculous and self-conscious that he’d over-step a mark, sound too much, scare his partner off, say the wrong thing. But with Timmy, words escaped them before they’d even comprehended it or had chance to restrain themselves. They didn’t need to.

“So fucking tight,” Armie growled, his fingers in Timmy’s curls, lightly pulling at his hair. “Am I the best fuck you’ve ever had?”

Timmy sighed almost in disbelief, for no comparison could even come close. “The best. You make me feel so fucking good.”

“I want you to come all over me, cover me in it,” Armie muttered, thrusting deeper into Timmy. It amazed him how variant they were in size, he sometimes feared he’d injure him. Yet Timmy’s body, feeble and angelic, somehow fit with his effortlessly.

That sent Timmy over the edge.

“Gonna come so hard,” Timmy panted, bouncing against Armie, his cock throbbing. Armie took Timmy in his fist, stroking him in time with his thrusts. In seconds, Timmy covered Armie’s chest, a delirious outcry arose from his chest. Armie followed him seconds later, as Timmy collapsed against him with contentment and disbelief at just how _good_ they were _together_. He couldn’t comprehend how good.

Timmy looked up at Armie, Armie’s lids now enveloped his pupils, a smile playing on his lips. Bliss. Timmy’s fingers stroked Armie’s chest, Armie’s own finding home in Timmy’s curls.

Timmy gulped, his throat tight and dry, his chest strangled.

“Armie?”

“Mm?” Armie murmured with a yawn, stroking Timmy’s forehead.

“I,” Timmy shook his head, to which Armie opened his eyes. _Why am I such a fucking coward?_ An exasperated sigh, at his hesitancy, escaped his mouth.

“I think I love you.”

Armie blinked in disbelief. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, bringing Timmy up with him. Before Timmy had chance to change topic, to get up to go to the toilet, to shrug it off like he was joking, he cupped either side of Timmy’s face in his palms.

Timmy hadn't said those words since childhood. Not over the phone, not in a Christmas card. Only hook-ups had ever found place beside his pillow. This felt alien, foreign but somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he'd never felt so sure of anything in his life. He didn't really know what that feeling felt like. Sure, he loved music, he loved acting, he loved dogs he stroked on the sidewalk. But never had he felt this kind of bond, this kind of admiration for another human being. If he overthought it he'd drive himself mad. 

“I love you too, baby,” he murmured, a gulp following. He felt his pupils fill up and he blinked hurriedly before Timmy were to notice.

Their lips met as an alternative to the need for words. A kind of voice without language.

But silence didn’t fill the room. Their heartbeats, in unison, echoed in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About time, right?! :) I'm wantedyoutoknow on Tumblr, come say hi! xx


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